THE  FOOT-PATH  WAY 


BRADFORD   TORREY 


on  PIP  ©F 

state  of  George  •u.  Bloc 
Class  of  1892 


BIOLOGY 

LIBRARY 


BIRDS  IN  THE  BUSH.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
A  RAMBLER'S   LEASE.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

BOSTON    AND   NEW  YORK. 


THE    FOOT-PATH   WAY 


BY 


BRADFORD  TORREY 


Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a  : 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

THE  WINTER'S  TALE 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
(Cfce  fttoergiDe  &tt$& 
1892 


BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  BRADFORD  TORREY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghtou  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA 1 

DECEMBER  OUT-OF-DOORS 36 

DYER'S  HOLLOW 67 

FIVE  DAYS  ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD     .        .        .        90 

A  WIDOW  AND  TWINS Ill 

THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT 135 

ROBIN  ROOSTS 153 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS        ....      176 

A  GREAT  BLUE  HERON 197 

FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS 205 

IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTH  PINE  .  232 


o 


THE  FOOT-PATH  WAY. 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA. 

' '  Herbs,  fruits,  and  flowers, 
Walks,  and  the  melody  of  birds." 

MILTON. 

THERE  were  six  of  us,  and  we  had  the 
entire  hotel,  I  may  almost  say  the  entire 
valley,  to  ourselves.  If  the  verdict  of  the 
villagers  could  have  been  taken,  we  should, 
perhaps,  have  been  voted  a  queer  set,  fami- 
liar as  dwellers  in  Franconia  are  with  the 
sight  of  idle  tourists,  — 

"  Rapid  and  gay,  as  if  the  earth  were  air, 
And  they  were  butterflies  to  wheel  about 
Long  as  the  summer  lasted." 

We  were  neither  "rapid."  nor  "gay,"  and 
it  was  still  only  the  first  week  of  June ;  if 
we  were  summer  boarders,  therefore,  we 
must  be  of  some  unusual  early  -  blooming 
variety. 


FRANC  ON  I  A. 


First  came  a  lady,  in  excellent  repute 
among  the  savants  of  Europe  and  America 
as  an  entomologist,  but  better  known  to  the 
general  public  as  a  writer  of  stories.  With 
her,  as  companion  and  assistant,  was  a  doc- 
tor of  laws,  who  is  also  a  newspaper  propri- 
etor, a  voluminous  author,  an  art  connois- 
seur, and  many  things  beside.  They  had 
turned  their  backs  thus  unseasonably  upon 
the  metropolis,  and  in  this  pleasant  out- 
of-the-way  corner  were  devoting  themselves 
to  one  absorbing  pursuit,  —  the  pursuit  of 
moths.  On  their  daily  drives,  two  or  three 
insect  nets  dangled  conspicuously  from  the 
carriage,  —  the  footman,  thrifty  soul,  was 
•never  backward  to  take  a  hand,  —  and 
evening  after  evening  the  hotel  piazza  was 
illuminated  till  midnight  with  lamps  and 
lanterns,  while  these  enthusiasts  waved  the 
same  white  nets  about,  gathering  in  geome- 
trids,  noctuids,  sphinges,  and  Heaven  knows 
what  else,  all  of  them  to  perish  painlessly 
in  numerous  "cyanide  bottles,"  which  be- 
strewed the  piazza  by  night,  and  (happy 
thought !  )  the  closed  piano  by  day.  In  this 
noble  occupation  I  sometimes  played  at  help- 
ing ;  but  with  only  meagre  success,  my  most 


JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A.  3 

brilliant  catch  being  nothing  more  impor- 
tant than  a  "beautiful  lo."  The  kind- 
hearted  lepidopterist  lingered  with  gracious 
emphasis  upon  the  adjective,  and  assured  me 
that  the  specimen  would  be  all  the  more  val- 
uable because  of  a  finger-mark  which  my 
awkwardness  had  left  upon  one  of  its  wings. 
So  —  to  the  credit  of  human  nature  be  it 
spoken  —  so  does  amiability  sometimes  get 
the  better  of  the  feminine  scientific  spirit. 
To  the  credit  of  human  nature,  I  say;  for, 
though  her  practice  of  the  romancer's  art 
may  doubtless  have  given  to  this  good  lady 
some  peculiar  flexibility  of  mind,  some  spe- 
cial, individual  facility  in  subordinating  a 
lower  truth  to  a  higher,  it  surely  may  be 
affirmed,  also,  of  humanity  in  general,  that 
few  things  become  it  better  than  its  incon- 
sistencies. 

Of  the  four  remaining  members  of  the 
company,  two  were  botanists,  and  two  —  for 
the  time  —  ornithologists.  But  the  botanists 
were  lovers  of  birds,  also,  and  went  nowhere 
without  opera-glasses;  while  the  ornitholo- 
gists, in  turn,  did  not  hold  themselves  above 
some  elementary  knowledge  of  plants,  and 
amused  themselves  with  now  and  then  point- 


4  JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A. 

ing  out  some  rarity  —  sedges  and  willows 
were  the  special  desiderata  —  which  the  pro- 
fessional collectors  seemed  in  danger  of  pass- 
ing without  notice.  All  in  all,  we  were  a 
queer  set.  How  the  Latin  and  Greek  poly- 
syllables flew  about  the  dining-room,  as  we 
recounted  our  forenoon's  or  afternoon's  dis- 
coveries !  Somebody  remarked  once  that  the 
waiters'  heads  appeared  to  be  more  or  less 
in  danger;  but  if  the  waiters  trembled  at 
all,  it  was  probably  not  for  their  own  heads, 
but  for  ours.1 

Our  first  excursion  —  I  speak  of  the  four 
who  traveled  on  foot  —  was  to  the  Franconia 
Notch.  It  could  not  well  have  been  other- 
wise ;  at  all  events,  there  was  one  of  the  four 

1  Just  how  far  the  cause  of  science  was  advanced  by 
all  this  activity  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  The  first  orni- 
thologist of  the  party  published  some  time  ago  (in  The 
Auk,  vol.  v.  p.  151)  a  list  of  our  Franconia  birds,  and  the 
results  of  the  botanists'  researches  among  the  willows 
have  appeared,  in  part  at  least,  in  different  numbers  of 
the  Bulletin  of  the  Torrey  Botanical  Club.  As  for  the 
lepidopterist,  I  have  an  indistinct  recollection  that  she 
once  wrote  to  me  of  having  made  some  highly  interest- 
ing discoveries  among  her  Franconia  collections,  —  sev- 
eral undescribed  species,  as  well  as  I  can  now  remember ; 
but  she  added  that  it  would  be  useless  to  go  into  particu- 
lars with  a  correspondent  entomologically  so  ignorant. 


JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A.  5 

whose  feet  would  not  willingly  have  carried 
him  in  any  other  direction.  The  mountains 
drew  us,  and  there  was  no  thought  of  resist- 
ing their  attraction. 

Love  and  curiosity  are  different,  if  not 
incompatible,  sentiments ;  and  the  birds  that 
are  dearest  to  the  man  are,  for  that  very 
reason,  not  most  interesting  to  the  ornithol- 
ogist. When  on  a  journey,  I  am  almost 
without  eyes  or  ears  for  bluebirds  and  rob- 
ins, song  sparrows  and  chickadees.  Now  is 
my  opportunity  for  extending  my  acquain- 
tance, and  such  every-day  favorites  must  get 
along  for  the  time  as  best  they  can  without 
my  attention.  So  it  was  here  in  Franconia. 
The  vesper  sparrow,  the  veery,  and  a  host 
of  other  friends  were  singing  about  the  hotel 
and  along  the  roadside,  but  we  heeded  them 
not.  Our  case  was  like  the  boy's  who  de- 
clined gingerbread,  when  on  a  visit :  he  had 
plenty  of  that  at  home. 

When  we  were  nearly  at  the  edge  of  the 
mountain  woods,  however,  we  heard  across 
the  field  a  few  notes  that  brought  all  four 
of  us  to  an  instant  standstill.  What  war- 
bler could  that  be?  Nobody  could  tell.  In 
fact,  nobody  could  guess.  But,  before  the 


6  JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA. 

youngest  of  us  could  surmount  the  wall,  the 
singer  took  wing,  flew  over  our  heads  far 
into  the  woods,  and  all  was  silent.  It  was 
too  bad ;  but  there  would  be  another  day  to- 
morrow. Meantime,  we  kept  on  up  the  hill, 
and  soon  were  in  the  old  forest,  listening 
to  bay  -  breasted  warblers,  Blackburnians, 
black-polls,  and  so  on,  while  the  noise  of  the 
mountain  brook  on  our  right,  a  better  singer 
than  any  of  them,  was  never  out  of  our 
ears.  "You  are  going  up,"  it  said.  "I 
wish  you  joy.  But  you  see  how  it  is ;  you 
will  soon  have  to  come  down  again." 

I  took  leave  of  my  companions  at  Profile 
Lake,  they  having  planned  an  all-day  excur- 
sion beyond,  and  started  homeward  by  my- 
self. Slowly,  and  with  many  stops,  I  saun- 
tered down  the  long  hill,  through  the  forest 
(the  stops,  I  need  not  say,  are  commonly  the 
major  part  of  a  naturalist's  ramble, — the 
golden  beads,  as  it  were,  the  walk  itself  be- 
ing only  the  string),  till  I  reached  the  spot 
where  we  had  been  serenaded  in  the  morn- 
ing by  our  mysterious  stranger.  Yes,  he 
was  again  singing,  this  time  not  far  from 
the  road,  in  a  moderately  thick  growth  of 
small  trees,  under  which  the  ground  was 


JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A.  7 

carpeted  with  club-mosses,  dog-tooth  violets, 
clintonia,  linnsea,  and  similar  plants.  He 
continued  to  sing,  and  I  continued  to  edge 
my  way  nearer  and  nearer,  till  finally  I  was 
near  enough,  and  went  down  on  my  knees. 
Then  I  saw  him,  facing  me,  showing  white 
under  parts.  A  Tennessee  warbler !  Here 
was  good  luck  indeed.  I  ogled  him  for  a 
long  time  ("Shoot  it,"  says  Mr.  Burroughs, 
authoritatively,  "not  ogle  it  with  a  glass;" 
but  a  man  must  follow  his  own  method),  im- 
patient to  see  his  back,  and  especially  the 
top  of  his  head.  What  a  precious  frenzy  we 
fall  into  at  such  moments !  My  knees  were 
fairly  upon  nettles.  He  flew,  and  I  fol- 
lowed. Once  more  he  was  under  the  glass, 
but  still  facing  me.  How  like  a  vireo  he 
looked !  For  one  instant  I  thought,  Can  it 
be  the  Philadelphia  vireo?  But,  though  I 
had  never  seen  that  bird,  I  knew  its  song  to 
be  as  different  as  possible  from  the  notes  to 
which  I  was  listening.  After  a  long  time 
the  fellow  turned  to  feeding,  and  now  I  ob- 
tained a  look  at  his  upper  parts,  —  the  back 
olive,  the  head  ashy,  like  the  Nashville 
warbler.  That  was  enough.  It  was  indeed 
the  Tennessee  (Helminthophila  peregrina), 


8  JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA. 

a  bird  for  which  I  had  been  ten  years  on  the 
watch. 

The  song,  which  has  not  often  been  de- 
scribed, is  more  suggestive  of  the  Nashville's 
than  of  any  other,  but  so  decidedly  different 
as  never  for  a  moment  to  be  confounded  with 
it.  "When  you  hear  it,"  a  friend  had  said 
to  me  several  years  before,  "you  will  know 
it  for  something  new."  It  is  long  (I  speak 
comparatively,  of  course),  very  sprightly, 
and  peculiarly  staccato,  and  is  made  up  of 
two  parts,  the  second  quicker  in  movement 
and  higher  in  pitch  than  the  first.  I  speak 
of  it  as  in  two  parts,  though  when  my  com- 
panions came  to  hear  it,  as  they  did  the  next 
day,  they  reported  it  as  in  three.  We  vis- 
ited the  place  together  afterwards,  and  the 
discrepancy  was  readily  explained.  As  to 
pitch,  the  song  is  in  three  parts,  but  as  to 
rhythm  and  character,  it  is  in  two ;  the  first 
half  being  composed  of  double  notes,  the 
second  of  single  notes.  The  resemblance  to 
the  Nashville's  song  lies  entirely  in  the  first 
part ;  the  notes  of  the  concluding  portion  are 
not  run  together  or  jumbled,  after  the  Nash- 
ville's manner,  but  are  quite  as  distinct  as 
those  of  the  opening  measure. 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA.  9 

As  there  were  at  least  two  pairs  of  the 
birds,  and  they  were  unmistakably  at  home, 
we  naturally  had  hope  of  finding  one  of  the 
nests.  We  made  several  random  attempts, 
and  one  day  I  devoted  an  hour  or  more  to  a 
really  methodical  search ;  but  the  wily  singer 
gave  me  not  the  slightest  clue,  behaving  as 
if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  a  bird's  nest 
within  a  thousand  miles,  and  all  my  endeav- 
ors went  for  nothing. 

As  might  have  been  foreseen,  Franconia 
proved  to  be  an  excellent  place  in  which 
to  study  the  difficult  family  of  flycatchers. 
All  our  common  eastern  Massachusetts 
species  were  present,  —  the  kingbird,  the 
phoebe,  the  wood  pewee,  and  the  least  fly- 
catcher, —  and  with  them  the  crested  fly- 
catcher (not  common),  the  olive-sided,  the 
traill,  and  the  yellow-bellied.  The  phoebe- 
like  cry  of  the  traill  was  to  be  heard  con- 
stantly from  the  hotel  piazza.  The  yellow- 
bellied  seemed  to  be  confined  to  deep  and 
rather  swampy  woods  in  the  valley,  and  to 
the  mountain-side  forests;  being  most  nu- 
merous on  Mount  Lafayette,  where  it  ran 
well  up  toward  the  limit  of  trees.  In  his 
notes,  the  yellow-belly  may  be  said  to  take 


10  JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA. 

after  both  the  least  flycatcher  and  the  wood 
pewee.  His  killic  (so  written  in  the  books, 
and  I  do  not  know  how  to  improve  upon  it) 
resembles  the  chebec  of  the  least  flycatcher, 
though  much  less  emphatic,  as  well  as  much 
less  frequently  uttered,  while  his  twee,  or 
tuwee,  is  quite  in  the  voice  and  manner  of 
the  wood  pewee 's  clear,  plaintive  whistle; 
usually  a  monosyllable,  but  at  other  times 
almost  or  quite  dissyllabic.  The  olive-sided, 
on  the  other  hand,  imitates  nobody;  or,  if 
he  does,  it  must  be  some  bird  with  which  I 
have  yet  to  make  acquaintance.  Que-que-o 
he  vociferates,  with  a  strong  emphasis  and 
drawl  upon  the  middle  syllable.  This  is  his 
song,  or  what  answers  to  a  song,  but  I  have 
seen  him  when  he  would  do  nothing  but  re- 
peat incessantly  a  quick  trisyllabic  call, 
whit,  whit,  whit ;  corresponding,  I  suppose, 
to  the  well-known  whit  with  which  the  phoebe 
sometimes  busies  himself  in  a  similar  man- 
ner. 

Of  more  interest  than  any  flycatcher  — 
of  more  interest  even  than  the  Tennessee 
warbler  —  was  a  bird  found  by  the  roadside 
in  the  village,  after  we  had  been  for  several 
days  in  the  place.  Three  of  us  were  walk- 


JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A.  11 

ing  together,  talking  by  the  way,  when  all 
at  once  we  halted,  as  by  a  common  impulse, 
at  the  sound  of  a  vireo  song;  a  red-eye's 
song,  as  it  seemed,  with  the  faintest  touch  of 
something  unfamiliar  about  it.  The  singer 
was  in  a  small  butternut-tree  close  upon  the 
sidewalk,  and  at  once  afforded  us  perfectly 
satisfactory  observations,  perching  on  a  low 
limb  within  fifteen  feet  of  our  eyes,  and 
singing  again  and  again,  while  we  scruti- 
nized every  feather  through  our  glasses.  As 
one  of  my  companions  said,  it  was  like  hav- 
ing the  bird  in  your  hand.  There  was  no 
room  for  a  question  as  to  its  identity.  At 
last  we  had  before  us  the  rare  and  long- 
desired  Philadelphia  greenlet.  As  its  song 
is  little  known,  I  here  transcribe  my  notes 
about  it,  made  at  two  different  times,  be- 
tween which  there  appears  to  have  been  some 
discussion  among  us  as  to  just  how  it  should 
be  characterized :  — 

"  The  song  is  very  pretty,  and  is  curiously 
compounded  of  the  red-eye's  and  the  soli- 
tai^r's,  both  as  to  phrase  and  quality.  The 
measures  are  all  brief;  with  fewer  syllables, 
that  is  to  say,  than  the  red-eye  commonly 
uses.  Some  of  them  are  exactly  like  the 


12  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

red-eye's,  while  others  have  the  peculiar 
sweet  upward  inflection  of  the  solitary's. 
To  hear  some  of  the  measures,  you  would 
pass  the  bird  for  a  red-eye;  to  hear  others 
of  them,  you  might  pass  him  for  a  solitary. 
At  the  same  time,  he  has  not  the  most  highly 
characteristic  of  the  solitary's  phrases.  His 
voice  is  less  sharp  and  his  accent  less  em- 
phatic than  the  red-eye's,  and,  so  far  as  we 
heard,  he  observes  decidedly  longer  rests 
between  the  measures." 

This  is  under  date  of  June  IGth.  On  the 
following  day  I  made  another  entry :  — 

"The  song  is,  I  think,  less  varied  than 
either  the  solitary's  or  the  red-eye's,  but  it 
grows  more  distinct  from  both  as  it  is  longer 
heard.  Acquaintance  will  probably  make 
it  as  characteristic  and  unmistakable  as  any 
of  our  four  other  vireo  songs.  But  I  do  not 
withdraw  what  I  said  yesterday  about  its 
resemblance  to  the  red-eye's  and  the  soli- 
tary's. The  bird  seems  quite  fearless,  and 
keeps  much  of  the  time  in  the  lower  branches. 
In  this  latter  respect  his  habit  is  in  contrast 
with  that  of  the  warbling  vireo." 

On  the  whole,  then,  the  song  of  the  Phil- 
adelphia vireo  comes  nearest  to  the  red-eye's, 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA.  13 

differing  from  it  mainly  in  tone  and  inflec- 
tion rather  than  in  form.  In  these  two  re- 
spects it  suggests  the  solitary  vireo,  though 
it  never  reproduces  the  indescribably  sweet 
cadence,  the  real  "dying  fall,"  of  that  most 
delightful  songster.  At  the  risk  of  a  seem- 
ing contradiction,  however,  I  must  mention 
one  curious  circumstance.  On  going  again 
to  Francoiiia,  a  year  afterwards,  and,  nat- 
urally, keeping  my  ears  open  for  Vireo  pJdl- 
addpliicuS)  I  discovered  that  I  was  never 
for  a  moment  in  doubt  when  I  heard  a  red- 
eye ;  but  once,  on  listening  to  a  distant  soli- 
tary, —  catching  only  part  of  the  strain,  — 
I  was  for  a  little  quite  uncertain  whether  he 
might  not  be  the  bird  for  which  I  was  look- 
ing. How  this  fact  is  to  be  explained  I  am 
unable  to  say ;  it  will  be  least  surprising  to 
those  who  know  most  of  such  matters,  and 
at  all  events  I  think  it  worth  recording  as 
affording  a  possible  clue  to  some  future  ob- 
server. The  experience,  inconsistent  as  the 
assertion  may  sound,  does  not  in  the  least 
alter  my  opinion  that  the  Philadelphia's 
song  is  practically  certain  to  be  confused 
with  the  red-eye's  rather  than  with  the  soli- 
tary's. Upon  that  point  my  companions 


14  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

and  I  were  perfectly  agreed  while  we  had 
the  bird  before  us,  and  Mr.  Brewster's  tes- 
timony is  abundantly  conclusive  to  the  same 
effect.  He  was  in  the  Umbagog  forests  on 
a  special  hunt  for  Philadelphia  vireos  (he 
had  collected  specimens  there  on  two  previ- 
ous occasions),  and  after  some  days  of  fruit- 
less search  discovered,  almost  by  accident, 
that  the  birds  had  all  the  while  been  singing 
close  about  him,  but  in  every  instance  had 
passed  for  "nothing  but  red-eyes."1 

For  the  benefit  of  the  lay  reader,  I  ought, 
perhaps,  to  have  explained  before  this  that 
the  Philadelphia  vireo  is  in  coloration  an  ex- 
act copy  of  the  warbling  vireo.  There  is  a 
slight  difference  in  size  between  the  two, 
but  the  most  practiced  eye  could  not  be  de- 
pended upon  to  tell  them  apart  in  a  tree. 
Vireo  philadelphicus  is  in  a  peculiar  case : 
it  looks  like  one  common  bird,  and  sings 
like  another.  It  might  have  been  invented 
on  purpose  to  circumvent  collectors,  as  the 
Almighty  has  been  supposed  by  some  to 
have  created  fossils  on  purpose  to  deceive 
ungodly  geologists.  It  is  not  surprising, 
therefore,  that  the  bird  escaped  the  notice 

1  Bulletin  oftheNuttall  Ornithological  Club,  vol.  v.  p.  3. 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA.  15 

of  the  older  ornithologists.  In  fact,  it  was 
first  described,  —  by  Mr.  Cassin,  —  in  1851, 
from  a  specimen  taken,  nine  years  before, 
near  Philadelphia;  and  its  nest  remained 
unknown  for  more  than  thirty  years  longer, 
the  first  one  having  been  discovered,  appar- 
ently in  Canada,  in  1884.1 

Day  after  day,  the  bare,  sharp  crest  of 
Mount  Lafayette  silently  invited  my  feet. 
Then  came  a  bright,  favorable  morning,  and 
I  set  out.  I  would  go  alone  on  this  my  first 
pilgrimage  to  the  noble  peak,  at  which,  al- 
ways from  too  far  off,  I  had  gazed  longingly 
for  ten  summers.  It  is  not  inconsistent 
with  a  proper  regard  for  one's  fellows,  I 
trust,  to  enjoy  now  and  then  being  without 
their  society.  It  is  good,  sometimes,  for  a 
man  to  be  alone,  —  especially  on  a  mountain- 
top,  and  more  especially  at  a  first  visit.  The 
trip  to  the  summit  was  some  seven  or  eight 
miles  in  length,  and  an  almost  continual  as- 
cent, without  a  dull  step  in  the  whole  dis- 
tance. The  Tennessee  warbler  was  sing- 
ing; but  perhaps  the  pleasantest  incident  of 
the  walk  to  the  Profile  House  —  in  front  of 
which  the  mountain  footpath  is  taken  —  was 
1  E.  E.  T.  Seton,  in  The  Auk,  vol.  ii.  p.  305. 


16  JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A. 

a  Blackburnian  warbler  perched,  as  usual, 
at  the  very  top  of  a  tall  spruce,  his  orange 
throat  flashing  fire  as  he  faced  the  sun, 
and  his  song,  as  my  notebook  expresses  it, 
"sliding  up  to  high  Z  at  the  end"  in  his 
quaintest  and  most  characteristic  fashion.  I 
spent  nearly  three  hours  in  climbing  the 
mountain  path,  and  during  all  that  time  saw 
and  heard  only  twelve  kinds  of  birds :  red- 
starts, Canada  warblers  (near  the  base), 
black-throated  blues,  black-throated  greens, 
Nashvilles,  black -polls,  red -eyed  vireos, 
snowbirds  (no  white -throated  sparrows!), 
winter  wrens,  Swainson  and  gray-cheeked 
thrushes,  and  yellow  -  bellied  flycatchers. 
Black -poll  and  Nashville  warblers  were  es- 
pecially numerous,  as  they  are  also  upon 
Mount  Washington,  and,  as  far  as  I  have 
seen,  upon  the  White  Mountains  generally. 
The  feeble,  sharp  song  of  the  black-poll  is  a 
singular  affair;  short  and  slight  as  it  is,  it 
embraces  a  perfect  crescendo  and  a  perfect 
decrescendo.  Without  question  I  passed 
plenty  of  white -throated  sparrows,  but  by 
some  coincidence  not  one  of  them  announced 
himself.  The  gray-cheeked  thrushes,  which 
sang  freely,  were  not  heard  till  I  was  per- 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA.  17 

haps  halfway  between  the  Eagle  Cliff  Notch 
and  the  Eagle  Lakes.  This  species,  so  re- 
cently added  to  our  summer  fauna,  proves 
to  be  not  uncommon  in  the  mountainous 
parts  of  New  England,  though  apparently 
confined  to  the  spruce  forests  at  or  near  the 
summits.  I  found  it  abundant  on  Mount 
Mansfield,  Vermont,  in  1885,  and  in  the 
summer  of  1888  Mr.  Walter  Faxon  sur- 
prised us  all  by  shooting  a  specimen  on 
Mount  Gray  lock,  Massachusetts.  Doubt- 
less the  bird  has  been  singing  its  perfectly 
distinctive  song  in  the  White  Mountain 
woods  ever  since  the  white  man  first  visited 
them.  During  the  vernal  migration,  indeed, 
I  have  more  than  once  heard  it  sing  in  east- 
ern Massachusetts.  My  latest  delightful 
experience  of  this  kind  was  on  the  29th  of 
May  last  (1889),  while  I  was  hastening  to  a 
railway  train  within  the  limits  of  Boston. 
Preoccupied  as  I  was,  and  faintly  as  the 
notes  came  to  me,  I  recognized  them  in- 
stantly; for  while  the  gray -cheek's  song 
bears  an  evident  resemblance  to  the  veery's 
(which  I  had  heard  within  five  minutes),  the 
two  are  so  unlike  in  pitch  and  rhythm  that 
no  reasonably  nice  ear  ought  ever  to  con- 


18  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

found  them.  The  bird  was  just  over  the 
high,  close,  inhospitable  fence,  on  the  top 
of  which  I  rested  my  chin  and  watched  and 
listened.  He  sat  with  his  back  toward  me, 
in  full  view,  on  a  level  with  my  eye,  and 
sang  and  sang  and  sang,  in  a  most  deli- 
ciously  soft,  far-away  voice,  keeping  his 
wings  all  the  while  a  little  raised  and  quiv- 
ering, as  in  a  kind  of  musical  ecstasy.  It 
does  seem  a  thing  to  be  regretted  —  yes,  a 
thing  to  be  ashamed  of  —  that  a  bird  so  beau- 
tiful, so  musical,  so  romantic  in  its  choice 
of  a  dwelling-place,  and  withal  so  charac- 
teristic of  New  England  should  be  known, 
at  a  liberal  estimate,  to  not  more  than  one 
or  two  hundred  New  Englanders!  But  if 
a  bird  wishes  general  recognition,  he  should 
do  as  the  robin  does,  and  the  bluebird,  and 
the  oriole,  —  dress  like  none  of  his  neigh- 
bors, and  show  himself  freely  in  the  vicinity 
of  men's  houses.  How  can  one  expect  to  be 
famous  unless  he  takes  a  little  pains  to  keep 
himself  before  the  public? 

From  the  time  I  left  my  hotel  until  I  was 
fairly  above  the  dwarf  spruces  below  the 
summit  of  Lafayette,  I  was  never  for  many 
minutes  together  out  of  the  hearing  of  thrush 


JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A.  19 

music.  Four  of  our  five  summer  represent- 
atives of  the  genus  Turdus  took  turns,  as 
it  were,  in  the  serenade.  The  veeries  — 
Wilson's  thrushes  —  greeted  me  before  I 
stepped  off  the  piazza.  As  I  neared  the 
Profile  House  farm,  the  hermits  were  in  tune 
on  either  hand.  The  moment  the  road  en- 
tered the  ancient  forest,  the  olive  -  backs 
began  to  make  themselves  heard,  and  half- 
way up  the  mountain  path  the  gray-cheeks 
took  up  the  strain  and  carried  it  on  to  its 
heavenly  conclusion.  A  noble  processional! 
Even  a  lame  man  might  have  climbed  to 
such  music.  If  the  wood  thrush  had  been 
here,  the  chorus  would  have  been  complete, 
—  a  chorus  not  to  be  excelled,  according 
to  my  untraveled  belief,  in  any  quarter  of 
the  world. 

To-day,  however,  my  first  thoughts  were 
not  of  birds,  but  of  the  mountain.  The 
weather  was  all  that  could  be  asked,  —  the 
temperature  perfect,  and  the  atmosphere  so 
transparent  as  to  be  of  itself  a  kind  of  lens ; 
so  that  in  the  evening,  when  I  rejoined  my 
companions  at  the  hotel,  I  found  to  my  as- 
tonishment that  I  had  been  plainly  visible 
while  at  the  summit,  the  beholders  having 


20  JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A. 

no  other  help  than  an  opera-glass  !  It  was 
almost  past  belief.  I  had  felt  some  dilation 
of  soul,  it  was  true,  but  had  been  quite 
unconscious  of  any  corresponding  physical 
transformation.  What  would  our  aboriginal 
forerunners  have  said  could  they  have  stood 
in  the  valley  and  seen  a  human  form  moving 
from  point  to  point  along  yonder  sharp, 
serrated  ridge?  I  should  certainly  have 
passed  for  a  god  !  Let  us  be  thankful  that 
all  such  superstitious  fancies  have  had  their 
day.  The  Indian,  poor  child  of  nature, 

"  A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn," 

stood  afar  off  and  worshiped  toward  these 
holy  hills;  but  the  white  man  clambers 
gayly  up  their  sides,  guide-book  in  hand, 
and  leaves  his  sardine  box  and  eggshells  — 
and  likely  enough  his  business  card  —  at  the 
top.  Let  us  be  thankful,  I  repeat,  for  the 
light  vouchsafed  to  us ;  ours  is  a  goodly  her- 
itage ;  but  there  are  moods  —  such  creatures 
of  hereditary  influence  are  we  —  wherein  I 
would  gladly  exchange  both  the  guide-book 
and  the  sardine  box  for  a  vision,  never  so 
indistinct  and  transient,  of  Kitche  Manitoo. 
Alas  !  what  a  long  time  it  is  since  any  of  us 


JUNE   IN  FRANCONIA.  21 

have  been  able  to  see  the  invisible.  "In 
the  mountains,"  says  Wordsworth,  "did  he 
feel  his  faith."  But  the  poet  was  speaking 
then  of  a  very  old-fashioned  young  fellow, 
who,  even  when  he  grew  up,  made  nothing 
but  a  peddler.  Had  he  lived  in  our  day, 
he  would  have  felt  not  his  faith,  but  his  own 
importance;  especially  if  he  had  put  him- 
self out  of  breath,  as  most  likely  he  would 
have  done,  in  accomplishing  in  an  hour  and 
forty  minutes  what,  according  to  the  guide- 
book, should  have  taken  a  full  hour  and 
three  quarters.  The  modern  excursionist 
(how  Wordsworth  would  have  loved  that 
word !)  has  learned  wisdom  of  a  certain  wise 
fowl  who  once  taught  St.  Peter  a  lesson,  and 
who  never  finds  himself  in  a  high  place  with- 
out an  impulse  to  flap  his  wings  and  crow. 

For  my  own  part,  though  I  spent  nearly 
three  hours  on  the  less  than  four  miles  of 
mountain  path,  as  I  have  already  acknow- 
ledged, I  was  nevertheless  somewhat  short- 
winded  at  the  end.  So  long  as  I  was  in  the 
woods,  it  was  easy  enough  to  loiter ;  but  no 
sooner  did  I  leave  the  last  low  spruces  be- 
hind me  than  I  was  seized  with  an  importu- 
nate desire  to  stand  upon  the  peak,  so  near 


22  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

at  hand  just  above  me.  I  hope  my  readers 
are  none  of  them  too  old  to  sympathize  with 
the  boyish  feeling.  At  all  events,  I  quick- 
ened my  pace.  The  distance  could  not  be 
more  than  half  a  mile,  I  thought.  But  it 
was  wonderful  how  that  perverse  trail  among 
the  boulders  did  unwind  itself,  as  if  it  never 
would  come  to  an  end;  and  I  was  not  sur- 
prised, on  consulting  a  guide-book  after- 
wards, to  find  that  my  half  mile  had  really 
been  a  mile  and  a  half.  One's  sensations  in 
such  a  case  I  have  sometimes  compared 
with  those  of  an  essay -writer  when  he  is  get- 
ting near  the  end  of  his  task.  He  dallied 
with  it  in  the  beginning,  and  was  half  ready 
to  throw  it  up  in  the  middle ;  but  now  the 
fever  is  on  him,  and  he  cannot  drive  the  pen 
fast  enough.  Two  days  ago  he  doubted 
whether  or  not  to  burn  the  thing;  now  it  is 
certain  to  be  his  masterpiece,  and  he  must 
sit  up  till  morning,  if  need  be,  to  finish 
it.  What  would  life  be  worth  without 
its  occasional  enthusiasm,  laughable  in  the 
retrospect,  perhaps,  but  in  itself  pleasurable 
almost  to  the  point  of  painf ulness  ? 

It   was   a   glorious  day.     I  enjoyed  the 
climb,  the  lessening  forest,  the  alpine  plants 


JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A.  23 

(the  diapensia  was  in  full  flower,  with  its 
upright  snowy  goblets,  while  the  geum  and 
the  Greenland  sandwort  were  just  beginning 
to  blossom),  the  magnificent  prospect,  the 
stimulating  air,  and,  most  of  all,  the  moun- 
tain itself.  I  sympathized  then,  as  I  have 
often  done  at  other  times,  with  a  remark 
once  made  to  me  by  a  Vermont  farmer's 
wife.  I  had  sought  a  night's  lodging  at  her 
house,  and  during  the  evening  we  fell  into 
conversation  about  Mount  Mansfield,  from 
the  top  of  which  I  had  just  come,  and  di- 
rectly at  the  base  of  which  the  farmhouse 
stood.  When  she  went  up  "the  mounting," 
she  said,  she  liked  to  look  off,  of  course ;  but 
somehow  what  she  cared  most  about  was 
"the  mounting  itself." 

The  woman  had  probably  never  read  a 
line  of  Wordsworth,  unless,  possibly,  "We 
are  Seven"  was  in  the  old  school  reader; 
but  I  am  sure  the  poet  would  have  liked  this 
saying,  especially  as  coming  from  such  a 
source.  /  liked  it,  at  any  rate,  and  am 
seldom  on  a  mountain-top  without  recalling 
it.  Her  lot  had  been  narrow  and  prosaic, 
—  bitterly  so,  the  visitor  was  likely  to  think ; 
she  was  little  used  to  expressing  herself,  and 


24  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

no  doubt  would  have  wondered  what  Mr. 
Pater  could  mean  by  his  talk  about  natural 
objects  as  possessing  "more  or  less  of  a 
moral  or  spiritual  life,"  as  "capable  of  a 
companionship  with  man,  full  of  expression, 
of  inexplicable  affinities  and  delicacies  of 
intercourse."  From  such  refinements  and 
subtleties  her  mind  would  have  taken  refuge 
in  thoughts  of  her  baking  and  ironing.  But 
she  enjoyed  the  mountain;  I  think  she  had 
some  feeling  for  it,  as  for  a  friend ;  and  who 
knows  but  she,  too,  was  one  of  "the  poets 
that  are  sown  by  Nature  "? 

I  spent  two  happy  hours  and  a  half  at  the 
summit  of  Lafayette.  The  ancient  peak 
must  have  had  many  a  worthier  guest,  but  it 
could  never  have  entertained  one  more  hos- 
pitably. With  what  softly  temperate  breezes 
did  it  fan  me  !  I  wish  I  were  there  now ! 
But  kind  as  was  its  welcome,  it  did  not  urge 
me  to  remain.  The  word  of  the  brook  came 
true  again,  —  as  Nature's  words  always  do, 
if  we  hear  them  aright.  Having  gone  as 
high  as  my  feet  could  carry  me,  there  was 
nothing  left  but  to  go  down  again.  "  Which 
things,"  as  Paul  said  to  the  Galatians,  "are 
an  allegory." 


JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A.  25 

I  was  not  asked  to  stay,  but  I  was  invited 
to  come  again;  and  the  next  season,  also  in 
June,  I  twice  accepted  the  invitation.  On 
the  first  of  these  occasions,  although  I  was 
eight  days  later  than  I  had  been  the  year 
before  (June  19th  instead  of  June  llth),  the 
diapensia  was  just  coming  into  somewhat 
free  bloom,  while  the  sandwort  showed  only 
here  and  there  a  stray  flower,  and  the  geum 
was  only  in  bud.  The  dwarf  paper  birch 
(trees  of  no  one  knows  what  age,  matting 
the  ground)  was  in  blossom,  with  large, 
handsome  catkins,  while  Cutler's  willow 
was  already  in  fruit,  and  the  crowberry 
likewise.  The  willow,  like  the  birch,  has 
learned  that  the  only  way  to  live  in  such  a 
place  is  to  lie  flat  upon  the  ground  and  let 
the  wind  blow  over  you.  The  other  flowers 
noted  at  the  summit  were  one  of  the  blue- 
berries (  Vaccinium,  uliginosum),  Bigelow's 
sedge,  and  the  fragrant  alpine  holy-grass 
(Hierochloa  alpind).  Why  should  this  sa- 
cred grass,  which  Christians  sprinkle  in 
front  of  their  church  doors  on  feast-days,  be 
scattered  thus  upon  our  higher  mountain- 
tops,  unless  these  places  are  indeed,  as  the 
Indian  and  the  ancient  Hebrew  believed, 
the  special  abode  of  the  Great  Spirit? 


26  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

But  the  principal  interest  of  this  my  sec- 
ond ascent  of  Mount  Lafayette  was  to  be 
not  botanical,  but  ornithological.  We  had 
seen  nothing  noteworthy  on  the  way  up  (I 
was  not  alone  this  time,  though  I  have  so 
far  been  rude  enough  to  ignore  my  compan- 
ion); but  while  at  the  Eagle  Lakes,  on  our 
return,  we  had  an  experience  that  threw  me 
into  a  nine  days'  fever.  The  other  man  — 
one  of  the  botanists  of  last  year's  crew  — 
was  engaged  in  collecting  viburnum  speci- 
mens, when  all  at  once  I  caught  sight  of 
something  red  in  a  dead  spruce  on  the  moun- 
tain-side just  across  the  tiny  lake.  I  leveled 
my  glass,  and  saw  with  perfect  distinctness, 
as  I  thought,  two  pine  grosbeaks  in  bright 
male  costume,  —  birds  I  had  never  seen  be- 
fore except  in  winter.  Presently  a  third 
one,  in  dull  plumage,  came  into  view,  hav- 
ing been  hidden  till  now'  behind  the  bole. 
The  trio  remained  in  sight  for  some  time, 
and  then  dropped  into  the  living  spruces 
underneath,  and  disappeared.  I  lingered 
about,  while  my  companion  and  the  black 
flies  were  busy,  and  was  on  the  point  of 
turning  away  for  good,  when  up  flew  two 
red  birds  and  alighted  in  a  tree  close  by  the 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA.  27 

one  out  of  which  the  grosbeaks  had  dropped. 
But  a  single  glance  showed  that  they  were 
not  grosbeaks,  but  white-winged  crossbills ! 
And  soon  they,  too,  were  joined  by  a  third 
bird,  in  female  garb.  Here  was  a  pretty 
piece  of  confusion!  I  was  delighted  to  see 
the  crossbills,  having  never  before  had  the 
first  glimpse  of  them,  summer  or  winter; 
but  what  was  I  to  think  about  the  gros- 
beaks? "Your  determination  is  worthless," 
said  my  scientific  friend,  consolingly;  and 
there  was  no  gainsaying  his  verdict.  Yet 
by  what  possibility  could  I  have  been  so  de- 
ceived? The  birds,  though  none  too  near, 
had  given  me  an  excellent  observation,  and 
as  long  as  they  were  in  sight  I  had  felt  no 
uncertainty  whatever  as  to  their  identity. 
The  bill  alone,  of  which  I  had  taken  partic- 
ular note,  ought  in  all  reason  to  be  held 
conclusive.  So  much  for  one  side  of  the 
case.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  the 
second  trio  were  unmistakably  crossbills. 
(They  had  been  joined  on  the  wing  by  sev- 
eral others,  as  I  ought  to  have  mentioned, 
and  with  their  characteristic  chattering  cry 
had  swept  out  of  sight  up  the  mountain). 
It  was  certainly  a  curious  coincidence :  three 


28  JUNE  IN  FRANC  ONI  A. 

grosbeaks  —  two  males  and  a  female  —  had 
dropped  out  of  a  tree  into  the  undergrowth ; 
and  then,  five  minutes  later,  three  crossbills 
—  two  males  and  a  female  —  had  risen  out 
of  the  same  undergrowth,  and  taken  almost 
the  very  perch  which  the  others  had  quitted  ! 
Had  this  strange  thing  happened?  Or  had 
my  eyes  deceived  me?  This  was  my  dilem- 
ma, on  the  sharp  horns  of  which  1  tried  al- 
ternately for  the  next  eight  days  to  make 
myself  comfortable. 

During  all  that  time,  the  weather  rendered 
mountain  climbing  impracticable.  But  the 
morning  of  the  28th  was  clear  and  cold,  and 
I  set  out  forthwith  for  the  Eagle  Lakes.  If 
the  grosbeaks  were  there,  I  meant  to  see 
them,  though  I  should  have  to  spend  all  day 
in  the  attempt.  My  botanist  had  returned 
home,  leaving  me  quite  alone  at  the  hotel; 
but,  as  good  fortune  would  have  it,  before 
I  reached  the  Profile  House,  I  was  over- 
taken unexpectedly  by  a  young  ornithological 
friend,  who  needed  no  urging  to  try  the  La- 
fayette path.  We  were  creeping  laboriously 
up  the  long,  steep  shoulder  beyond  the  Ea- 
gle Cliff  gorge,  and  drawing  near  the  lakes, 
when  all  at  once  a  peculiarly  sweet,  flowing 


JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A.  29 

warble  fell  upon  our  ears.  UA  pine  gros- 
beak ! "  said  I,  in  a  tone  of  full  assurance, 
although  this  was  my  first  hearing  of  the 
song.  The  younger  man  plunged  into  the 
forest,  in  the  direction  of  the  voice,  while  I, 
knowing  pretty  well  how  the  land  lay,  has- 
tened on  toward  the  lakes,  in  hopes  to  find 
the  singer  visible  from  that  point.  Just  as 
I  ran  down  the  little  incline  into  the  open, 
a  bird  flew  past  me  across  the  water,  and 
alighted  in  a  dead  spruce  (it  might  have 
been  the  very  tree  of  nine  days  before), 
where  it  sat  in  full  sight,  and  at  once  broke 
into  song,  —  "like  the  purple  finch's,"  says 
my  notebook;  "less  fluent,  but,  as  it  seemed 
to  me,  sweeter  and  more  expressive.  I  think 
it  was  not  louder."  Before  many  minutes, 
my  comrade  came  running  down  the  path  in 
high  glee,  calling,  "Pine  grosbeaks!"  He 
had  got  directly  under  a  tree  in  which  two 
of  them  were  sitting.  So  the  momentous 
question  was  settled,  and  I  commenced  feel- 
ing once  more  a  degree  of  confidence  in  my 
own  eyesight.  The  loss  of  such  confidence 
is  a  serious  discomfort;  but,  strange  as  it 
may  seem  to  people  in  general,  I  suspect 
that  few  field  ornithologists,  except  begin- 


30  JUNE  IN  FRAN  CON  I  A. 

ners,  ever  succeed  in  retaining  it  undis- 
turbed for  any  long  time  together.  As  a 
class,  they  have  learned  to  take  the  familiar 
maxim,  "Seeing  is  believing,"  with  several 
grains  of  allowance.  With  most  of  them, 
it  would  be  nearer  the  mark  to  say,  Shoot- 
ing is  believing. 

My  special  errand  at  the  lakes  being  thus 
quickly  disposed  of,  there  was  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  accompany  my  friend  to  the 
summit.  Lafayette  gave  us  a  cold  reception. 
We  might  have  addressed  him  as  Daniel 
Webster,  according  to  the  time-worn  story, 
once  addressed  Mount  Washington;  but 
neither  of  us  felt  oratorically  inclined.  In 
truth,  after  the  outrageous  heats  of  the  past 
few  days,  it  seemed  good  to  be  thrashing  our 
arms  and  crouching  behind  a  boulder,  while 
we  devoured  our  luncheon,  and  between 
times  studied  the  landscape.  For  my  own 
part,  I  experienced  a  feeling  of  something 
like  wicked  satisfaction;  as  if  I  had  been 
wronged,  and  all  at  once  had  found  a  way 
of  balancing  the  score.  The  diapensia  was 
already  quite  out  of  bloom,  although  only 
nine  days  before  we  had  thought  it  hardly 
at  its  best.  It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  and 


JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA.  31 

most  striking  of  our  strictly  alpine  plants, 
but  is  seldom  seen  by  the  ordinary  summer 
tourist,  as  it  finishes  its  course  long  before 
he  arrives.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the 
splendid  Lapland  azalea,  which  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  found  on  Mount  Lafay- 
ette, it  is  true,  but  which  is  to  be  seen  in 
all  its  glory  upon  the  Mount  Washington 
range,  in  middle  or  late  June ;  so  early  that 
one  may  have  to  travel  over  snow-banks  to 
reach  it.  The  two  flowers  oftenest  noticed 
by  the  chance  comer  to  these  parts  are 
the  Greenland  sand  wort  (the  "mountain 
daisy  "  !)  and  the  pretty  geum,  with  its  hand- 
some crinkled  leaves  and  its  bright  yellow 
blossoms,  like  buttercups. 

My  sketch  will  hardly  fulfill  the  promise 
of  its  title;  for  our  June  in  Franconia  in- 
cluded a  thousand  things  of  which  I  have 
left  myself  no  room  to  speak :  strolls  in  the 
Landaff  Valley  and  to  Sugar  Hill ;  a  walk 
to  Mount  Agassiz ;  numerous  visits  —  by  the 
way,  and  in  uncertain  weather  —  to  Bald 
Mountain ;  several  jaunts  to  Lonesome  Lake ; 
and  wanderings  here  and  there  in  the  path- 
less valley  woods.  We  were  none  of  us  of 
that  unhappy  class  who  cannot  enjoy  doing 
the  same  thing  twice. 


32  JUNE  IN  FRANCONIA. 

I  wished,  also,  to  say  something  of  sun- 
dry minor  enjoyments:  of  the  cinnamon 
roses,  for  example,  with  the  fragrance  of 
which  we  were  continually  greeted,  and  which 
have  left  such  a  sweetness  in  the  memory 
that  I  would  have  called  this  essay  "June 
in  the  Valley  of  Cinnamon  Roses,"  had  I 
not  despaired  of  holding  myself  up  to  so 
poetic  a  title.  And  with  the  roses  the  wild 
strawberries  present  themselves.  Roses  and 
strawberries !  It  is  the  very  poetry  of  sci- 
ence that  these  should  be  classified  together. 
The  berries,  like  the  flowers,  are  of  a  gener- 
ous turn  (it  is  a  family  trait,  I  think),  lov- 
ing no  place  better  than  the  roadside,  as  if 
they  would  fain  be  of  refreshment  to  beings 
less  happy  than  themselves,  who  cannot  be 
still  and  blossom  and  bear  fruit,  but  are 
driven  by  the  Fates  to  go  trudging  up  and 
down  in  dusty  highways.  For  myself,  if  I 
were  a  dweller  in  this  vale,  I  am  sure  my 
finger-tips  would  never  be  of  their  natural 
color  so  long  as  the  season  of  strawberries 
lasted.  On  one  of  my  solitary  rambles  I 
found  a  retired  sunny  field,  full  of  them. 
To  judge  from  appearances,  not  a  soul  had 
been  near  it.  But  I  noticed  that,  while  the 


JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A.  33 

almost  ripe  fruit  was  abundant,  there  was 
scarce  any  that  had  taken  on  the  final  tinge 
and  flavor.  Then  I  began  to  be  aware  of 
faint,  sibilant  noises  about  me,  and,  glan- 
cing up,  I  saw  that  the  ground  was  already 
"preempted"  by  a  company  of  cedar-birds, 
who,  naturally  enough,  were  not  a  little  in- 
dignant at  my  poaching  thus  on  their  pre- 
serves. They  showed  so  much  concern  (and 
had  gathered  the  ripest  of  the  berries  so 
thoroughly)  that  I  actually  came  away  the 
sooner  on  their  account.  I  began  to  feel 
ashamed  of  myself,  and  for  once  in  my  life 
was  literally  hissed  off  the  stage. 

Even  on  my  last  page  I  must  be  permitted 
a  word  in  praise  of  Mount  Cannon,  of  which 
I  made  three  ascents.  It  has  nothing  like 
the  celebrity  of  Mount  Willard,  with  which, 
from  its  position,  it  is  natural  to  compare  it ; 
but  to  my  thinking  it  is  little,  if  at  all,  less 
worthy.  Its  outlook  upon  Mount  Lafayette 
is  certainly  grander  than  anything  Mount 
Willard  can  offer,  while  the  prospect  of  the 
Pemigewasset  Valley,  fading  away  to  the 
horizon,  if  less  striking  than  that  of  the 
White  Mountain  Notch,  has  some  elements 
of  beauty  which  must  of  necessity  be  lacking 


34  JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A. 

in  any  more  narrowly  circumscribed  scene, 
no  matter  how  romantic. 

In  venturing  upon  a  comparison  of  this 
kind,  however,  one  is  bound  always  to  allow 
for  differences  of  mood.  When  I  am  in 
tune  for  such  things,  I  can  be  happier  on  an 
ordinary  Massachusetts  hilltop  than  at  an- 
other time  I  should  be  on  any  New  Hamp- 
shire mountain,  though  it  were  Moosilauke 
itself.  And,  truly,  Fortune  did  smile  upon 
our  first  visit  to  Mount  Cannon.  Weather 
conditions,  outward  and  inward,  were  right. 
We  had  come  mainly  to  look  at  Lafayette 
from  this  point  of  vantage;  but,  while  we 
suffered  no  disappointment  in  that  direc- 
tion, we  found  ourselves  still  more  taken 
with  the  valley  prospect.  We  lay  upon  the 
rocks  by  the  hour,  gazing  at  it.  Scattered 
clouds  dappled  the  whole  vast  landscape  with 
shadows ;  the  river,  winding  down  the  mid- 
dle of  the  scene,  drew  the  whole  into  har- 
mony, as  it  were,  making  it  in  some  nobly 
literal  sense  picturesque ;  while  the  distance 
was  of  such  an  exquisite  blue  as  I  think  I 
never  saw  before. 

How  good  life  is  at  its  best !  And  in 
such 


JUNE  IN  FRANC  ON  I  A.  35 

"charmed  days, 
When  the  genius  of  God  doth  flow," 

what  care  we  for  science  or  the  objects  of 
science,  —  for  grosbeak  or  crossbill  (may  the 
birds  forgive  me !),  or  the  latest  novelty  in 
willows?  I  am  often  where  fine  music  is 
played,  and  never  without  being  interested; 
as  men  say,  I  am  pleased.  But  at  the  twen- 
tieth time,  it  may  be,  something  touches  my 
ears,  and  I  hear  the  music  within  the  music ; 
and,  for  the  hour,  I  am  at  heaven's  gate. 
So  it  is  with  our  appreciation  of  natural 
beauty.  We  are  always  in  its  presence,  but 
only  on  rare  occasions  are  our  eyes  anointed 
to  see  it.  Such  ecstasies,  it  seems,  are  not 
for  every  day.  Sometimes  I  fear  they  grow 
less  frequent  as  we  grow  older. 

We  will  hope  for  better  things;  but, 
should  the  gloomy  prognostication  fall  true, 
we  will  but  betake  ourselves  the  more  assid- 
uously to  lesser  pleasures,  —  to  warblers  and 
willows,  roses  and  strawberries.  Science 
will  never  fail  us.  If  worse  comes  to  worst, 
we  will  not  despise  the  moths. 


DECEMBER  OUT-OF-DOORS. 

"  December 's  as  pleasant  as  May." 

Old  Hymn. 

FOR  a  month  so  almost  universally  spoken 
against,  November  commonly  brings  more 
than  its  full  proportion  of  fair  days;  and 
last  year  (1888)  this  proportion  was,  I  think, 
even  greater  than  usual.  On  the  1st  and 
5th  I  heard  the  peeping  of  hylas ;  Sunday, 
the  4th,  was  enlivened  by  a  farewell  visita- 
tion of  bluebirds ;  during  the  first  week,  at 
least  four  sorts  of  butterflies  —  Disippus, 
Philodice,  Antiopa,  and  Comma  —  were  on 
the  wing,  and  a  single  Philodice  (our  com- 
mon yellow  butterfly)  was  flying  as  late  as 
the  16th.  Wild  flowers  of  many  kinds  — 
not  less  than  a  hundred,  certainly  —  were 
in  bloom;  among  them  the  exquisite  little 
pimpernel,  or  poor  man's  weather  -  glass. 
My  daily  notes  are  full  of  complimentary 
allusions  to  the  weather.  Once  in  a  while  it 
rained,  and  under  date  of  the  6th  I  find  this 


DECEMBER  OUT-OF-DOORS.  37 

record,  —  "Everybody  complaining  of  the 
heat;  "but  as  terrestrial  matters  go,  the 
month  was  remarkably  propitious  up  to  the 
25th.  Then,  all  without  warning,  —  unless 
possibly  from  the  pimpernel,  which  nobody 
heeded,  —  a  violent  snow-storm  descended 
upon  us.  Kailway  travel  and  telegraphic 
communication  were  seriously  interrupted, 
while  from  up  and  down  the  coast  came 
stories  of  shipwreck  and  loss  of  life.  Win- 
ter was  here  in  earnest ;  for  the  next  three 
months  good  walking  days  would  be  few. 

December  opened  with  a  mild  gray  morn- 
ing. The  snow  had  already  disappeared, 
leaving  only  the  remains  of  a  drift  here  and 
there  in  the  lee  of  a  stone-wall ;  the  ground 
was  saturated  with  water;  every  meadow 
was  like  a  lake ;  and  but  for  the  greenness 
of  the  fields  in  a  few  favored  spots,  the  sea- 
son might  have  been  late  March  instead  of 
early  December.  Of  course  such  hours 
were  never  meant  to  be  wasted  within  doors. 
So  I  started  out,  singing  as  I  went,  — 

"  While  God  invites,  how  blest  the  day !  " 

But  the  next  morning  was  pleasant  likewise ; 
and  the  next ;  and  still  the  next ;  and  so  the 


38  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

story  went  on,  till  in  the  end,  omitting  five 
days  of  greater  or  less  inclemency,  I  had 
spent  nearly  the  entire  month  in  the  open 
air.  I  could  hardly  have  done  better  had  I 
been  in  Florida. 

All  my  neighbors  pronounced  this  state 
of  things  highly  exceptional;  many  were 
sure  they  had  never  known  the  like.  At 
the  time  I  fully  agreed  with  them.  Now, 
however,  looking  back  over  my  previous 
year's  notes,  I  come  upon  such  entries  as 
these:  "December  3d.  The  day  has  been 
warm.  Found  chickweed  and  knawel  in 
bloom,  and  an  old  garden  was  full  of  fresh- 
looking  pansies."  "4th.  A  calm,  warm 
morning."  "5th.  Warm  and  rainy." 
"6th.  Mild  and  bright."  "7th.  A  most 
beautiful  winter  day,  mild  and  calm." 
"  8th.  Even  milder  and  more  beautiful  than 
yesterday."  "llth.  Weather  very  mild 
since  last  entry.  Pickering  hylas  peeping 
to-day."  "12th.  Still  very  warm;  hylas 
peeping  in  several  places."  "13th.  Warm 
and  bright."  "14th.  If  possible,  a  more 
beautiful  day  than  yesterday." 

So  much  for  December,  1887.  Its  unex- 
pected good  behavior  would  seem  to  have 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  39 

made  a  profound  impression  upon  me;  no 
doubt  I  promised  never  to  forget  it;  yet 
twelve  months  later  traditionary  notions  had 
resumed  their  customary  sway,  and  every 
pleasant  morning  took  me  by  surprise. 

The  winter  of  1888-89  will  long  be  fa- 
mous in  the  ornithological  annals  of  New 
England  as  the  winter  of  killdeer  plovers. 
1  have  mentioned  the  great  storm  of  Novem- 
ber 25th-27th.  On  the  first  pleasant  morn- 
ing afterwards  —  on  the  28th,  that  is  —  my 
out-of-door  comrade  and  I  made  an  excur- 
sion to  Nahant.  The  land-breeze  had  al- 
ready beaten  down  the  surf,  and  the  turmoil 
of  the  waters  was  in  great  part  stilled ;  but 
the  beach  was  strewn  with  sea-weeds  and 
eel-grass,  and  withal  presented  quite  a  holi- 
day appearance.  From  one  motive  and  an- 
other, a  considerable  proportion  of  the  in- 
habitants of  the  city  had  turned  out.  The 
principal  attraction,  as  far  as  we  could  per- 
ceive, was  a  certain  big  clam,  of  which  great 
numbers  had  been  cast  tip  by  the  tide.  Bas- 
kets and  wagons  were  being  filled ;  some  of 
the  men  carried  off  shells  and  all,  while  oth- 
ers, with  a  celerity  which  must  have  been 
the  result  of  much  practice,  were  cutting  out 


40  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

the  plump  dark  bodies,  leaving  the  shells 
in  heaps  upon  the  sand.  The  collectors  of 
these  molluscan  dainties  knew  them  as  qua- 
haugs,  and  esteemed  them  accordingly ;  but 
my  companion,  a  connoisseur  in  such  mat- 
ters, pronounced  them  not  the  true  quahaug 
(  Venus  mercenaries,  —  what  a  profanely  ill- 
sorted  name,  even  for  a  bivalve!)  but  the 
larger  and  coarser  Cyprina  islandica.  The 
man  to  whom  we  imparted  this  precious  bit 
of  esoteric  lore  received  it  like  a  gentleman, 
if  I  cannot  add  like  a  scholar.  "We  call 
them  quahaugs,"  he  answered,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  polite  deprecation,  as  if  it  were  not 
in  the  least  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  should 
be  found  in  the  wrong.  It  was  evident,  at 
the  same  time,  that  the  question  of  a  name 
did  not  strike  him  as  of  any  vital  conse- 
quence. Venus  mercenaries  or  Cyprina 
islandica,  the  savor iness  of  the  chowder  was 
not  likely  to  be  seriously  affected. 

It  was  good,  I  thought,  to  see  so  many 
people  out  -  of  -  doors.  Most  of  them  had 
employment  in  the  shops,  probably,  and  on 
grounds  of  simple  economy,  so  called,  would 
have  been  wiser  to  have  stuck  to  their  lasts. 
But  man,  after  all  that  civilization  has  done 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  41 

for  him  (and  against  him),  remains  at  heart 
a  child  of  nature.  His  ancestors  may  have 
been  shoemakers  for  fifty  generations,  but 
none  the  less  he  feels  an  impulse  now  and 
then  to  quit  his  bench  and  go  hunting, 
though  it  be  only  for  a  mess  of  clams. 

Leaving  the  crowd,  we  kept  on  our  way 
across  the  beach  to  Little  Nahant,  the  cliffs 
of  which  offer  an  excellent  position  from 
which  to  sweep  the  bay  in  search  of  loons, 
old-squaws,  and  other  sea-fowl.  Here  we 
presently  met  two  gunners.  They  had  been 
more  successful  than  most  of  the  sportsmen 
that  one  falls  in  with  on  such  trips ;  between 
them  they  had  a  guillemot,  two  horned  larks, 
and  a  brace  of  large  plovers,  of  some  species 
unknown  to  us,  but  noticeable  for  their 
bright  cinnamon -colored  rumps.  "Why 
couldn't  we  have  found  those  plovers,  in- 
stead of  that  fellow?  "  said  my  companion, 
as  we  crossed  the  second  beach.  I  fear  he 
was  envious  at  the  prosperity  of  the  wicked. 
But  it  was  only  a  passing  cloud;  for  on 
reaching  the  main  peninsula  we  were 
speedily  arrested  by  loud  cries  from  a  piece 
of  marsh,  and  after  considerable  wading  and 
a  clamber  over  a  detestable  barbed-wire 


42  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS, 

fence,  such  as  no  rambler  ever  encountered 
without  at  least  a  temptation  to  profanity, 
we  caught  sight  of  a  flock  of  about  a  dozen 
of  the  same  unknown  plovers.  This  was 
good  fortune  indeed.  We  had  no  firearms, 
nor  even  a  pinch  of  salt,  and  coining  shortly 
to  a  ditch,  too  wide  for  leaping  and  too  deep 
for  cold-weather  fording,  we  were  obliged 
to  content  ourselves  with  opera-glass  inspec- 
tion. Six  of  the  birds  were  grouped  in  a 
little  plot  of  grass,  standing  motionless,  like 
so  many  robins.  Their  novelty  and  their 
striking  appearance,  with  two  conspicuous 
black  bands  across  the  breast,  their  loud 
cries,  and  their  curious  movements  and  at- 
titudes were  enough  to  drive  a  pair  of  en- 
thusiasts half  crazy.  We  looked  and  looked, 
and  then  reluctantly  turned  away.  On  get- 
ting home  we  had  no  difficulty  in  determin- 
ing their  identity,  and  each  at  once  sent  off 
to  the  other  the  same  verdict,  —  "killdeer 
plover." 

This,  as  I  say,  was  on  the  28th  of  Novem- 
ber. On  the  3d  of  December  we  were  again 
at  Nahant,  eating  our  luncheon  upon  the 
veranda  of  some  rich  man's  deserted  cottage, 

O      ™ 

and  at  the  same  time  enjoying  the  sunshine 
and  the  beautiful  scene. 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  43 

It  was  a  summery  spot ;  moths  were  flit- 
ting about  us,  and  two  grasshoppers  leaped 
out  of  our  way  as  we  crossed  the  lawn.  They 
showed  something  less  than  summer  liveli- 
ness, it  is  true ;  it  was  only  afterwards,  and 
by  way  of  contrast,  that  I  recalled  Leigh 
Hunt's 

"  Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 
Catching  his  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June." 

But  they  had  done  well,  surely,  to  weather 
the  recent  snow-storm  and  the  low  tempera- 
ture ;  for  the  mercury  had  been  down  to  10° 
within  a  fortnight,  and  a  large  snow-bank 
was  still  in  sight  against  the  wall.  Sud- 
denly a  close  flock  of  eight  or  ten  birds  flew 
past  us  and  disappeared  behind  the  hill. 
"Pigeons?"  said  my  companion.  I  thought 
not ;  they  were  sea-birds  of  some  kind.  Soon 
we  heard  killdeer  cries  from  the  beach,  and, 
looking  up,  saw  the  birds,  three  of  them, 
alighting  on  the  sand.  We  started  down 
the  hill  in  haste,  but  just  at  that  moment  an 
old  woman,  a  miserable  gatherer  of  drift 
rubbish,  walked  directly  upon  them,  and 
they  made  off.  Then  we  saw  that  our 
"pigeons,"  or  "sea-birds,"  had  been  nothing 
but  killdeer  plovers,  which,  like  other  long- 


44  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

winged  birds,  look  much  larger  in  the  air 
than  when  at  rest.  Returning  towards  Lynn, 
later  in  the  afternoon,  we  came  upon  the 
same  three  birds  again;  this  time  feeding 
among  the  boulders  at  the  end  of  the  beach. 
We  remarked  once  more  their  curious,  silly- 
looking  custom  of  standing  stock-still  with 
heads  indrawn.  But  our  own  attitudes,  as 
we  also  stood  stock-still  with  glasses  raised, 
may  have  looked,  in  their  eyes,  even  more 
singular  and  meaningless.  As  we  turned 
away  —  after  flushing  them  two  or  three 
times  to  get  a  view  of  their  pretty  cinnamon 
rump-feathers  —  a  sportsman  came  up,  and 
proved  to  be  the  very  man  on  whose  belt  we 
had  seen  our  first  killdeers,  a  week  before. 
We  left  him  doing  his  best  to  bag  these 
three  also.  He  will  never  read  what  I  write, 
and  I  need  not  scruple  to  confess  that,  see- 
ing his  approach,  we  purposely  startled  the 
birds  as  badly  as  possible,  hoping  to  see  them 
make  off  over  the  hill,  out  of  harm's  way. 
But  the  foolish  creatures  could  not  take  the 
hint,  and  alighted  again  within  a  few  rods, 
at  the  same  time  calling  loudly  enough  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  gunner,  who  up 
to  this  moment  had  not  been  aware  of  their 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  45 

presence.  He  fired  twice  before  we  got  out 
of  sight,  but,  to  judge  from  his  motions, 
without  success.  A  man's  happiness  is  per- 
haps of  more  value  than  a  plover's,  though 
I  do  not  see  how  we  are  to  prove  it ;  but  my 
sympathies,  then  as  always,  were  with  the 
birds. 

Within  a  week  or  so  I  received  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter,  together  with  a 
wing,  a  foot,  and  one  cinnamon  feather. 
"By  this  wing  which  I  send  you,"  she  be- 
gan, "can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  bird 
that  owned  it?"  Then  after  some  descrip- 
tion of  the  plumage,  she  continued:  "In  the 
late  tremendous  tempest  myriads  of  these 
birds  settled  on  the  Isles  of  Shoals,  filling 
the  air  with  a  harsh,  shrill,  incessant  cry, 
and  not  to  be  driven  away  by  guns  or  any 
of  man's  inhospitable  treatment.  Their 
number  was  so  great  as  to  be  amazing,  and 
they  had  never  been  seen  before  by  any  of 
the  present  inhabitants  of  the  Shoals.  They 
are  plovers  of  some  kind,  I  should  judge, 
but  I  do  not  know."  On  the  16th  she  wrote 
again:  "All  sorts  of  strange  things  were 
cast  up  by  the  storm,  and  the  plovers  were 
busy  devouring  everything  they  could  find; 


46  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

always  running,  chasing  each  other,  very 
quarrelsome,  lighting  all  the  time.  They 
were  in  poor  condition,  so  lean  that  the  men 
did  not  shoot  them  after  the  first  day,  a  fact 
which  gives  your  correspondent  great  satis- 
faction. They  are  still  there !  My  brother 
came  from  the  Shoals  yesterday,  and  says 
that  the  place  is  alive  with  them,  all  the 
seven  islands." 

Similar  facts  were  reported  —  as  I  began 
in  one  way  and  another  to  learn  —  from 
different  points  along  the  coast;  especially 
from  Cape  Elizabeth,  Maine,  where  hun- 
dreds of  the  birds  were  seen  on  the  28th  and 
29th  of  November.  The  reporter  of  this 
item1  pertinently  adds:  "Such  a  flight  of 
killdeer  in  Maine  —  where  the  bird  is  well 
known  to  be  rare  —  has  probably  not  oc- 
curred before  within  the  memory  of  living 
sportsmen."  Here,  as  at  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
the  visitors  were  at  first  easily  shot  (they  are 
not  counted  among  game  birds  where  they 
are  known,  on  account  of  their  habitual  lean- 
ness, I  suppose);  but  they  had  landed  upon 
inhospitable  shores,  and  were  not  long  in 

1  Mr.   N.   C.    Brown,    in    The  Auk,   January,    1889, 
page  69. 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  47 

becoming  aware  of  their  misfortune.  In 
the  middle  of  December  one  of  our  Cam- 
bridge ornithologists  went  to  Cape  Cod  on 
purpose  to  find  them.  He  saw  about  sixty 
birds,  but  by  this  time  they  were  so  wild 
that  he  succeeded  in  getting  only  a  single 
specimen.  "Poor  fellows!  "  he  wrote  me; 
"they  looked  unhappy  enough,  that  cold 
Friday,  with  the  mercury  at  12°  and  every- 
thing frozen  stiff.  "Most  of  them  were  on 
hillsides  and  in  the  hollows  of  pastures;  a 
few  were  in  the  salt  marshes,  and  one  or  two 
on  the  beach."  Nobody  expected  them  to 
remain  hereabouts,  as  they  normally  winter 
in  the  West  Indies  and  in  Central  and  South 
America;1  but  every  little  while  Mrs.  Thax- 
ter  wrote,  "The  killdeers  are  still  here!" 
and  on  the  21st  of  December,  as  I  approached 
Marblehead  Neck,  I  saw  a  bird  skimming 

1  It  seems  probable  that  the  birds  started  from  some 
point  in  the  Southern  States  for  a  long  southward  flight, 
or  perhaps  for  the  West  Indies,  on  the  evening  of  Novem- 
ber 24th,  and  on  getting  out  to  sea  were  caught  by  the 
great  gale,  which  whirled  them  northward  over  the  At- 
lantic, landing  them  —  such  of  them,  that  is,  as  were 
not  drowned  on  the  way  —  upon  the  coast  of  New  Eng- 
land. The  grounds  for  such  an  opinion  are  set  forth  by 
Dr.  Arthur  P.  Chadbourne  in  The  Auk  for  July,  1889, 
page  255. 


48  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

over  the  ice  that  covered  the  small  pond 
back  of  the  beach.  I  put  up  my  glass  and 
said  to  myself,  "A  killdeer  plover  !"  There 
proved  to  be  two  birds.  They  would  not 
suffer  me  within  gunshot,  —  though  I  car- 
ried no  gun, — but  flew  off  into  some 
ploughed  ground,  with  their  usual  loud  vo- 
ciferations. (The  killdeer  is  aptly  named 
^Egialitis  vocifera.^ 

During  the  month  with  the  history  of 
which  we  are  now  especially  concerned,  I 
saw  nothing  more  of  them ;  but  by  way  of 
completing  the  story  I  may  add  that  on  the 
28th  of  January,  in  the  same  spot,  I  found 
a  flock  of  seven,  and  there  they  remained. 
I  visited  them  four  times  in  February  and 
once  in  March,  and  found  them  invariably  in 
the  same  place.  Evidently  they  had  no  idea 
of  making  another  attempt  to  reach  the 
West  Indies  for  this  season;  and  if  they 
were  to  remain  in  our  latitude,  they  could 
hardly  have  selected  a  more  desirable  loca- 
tion. The  marsh,  or  meadow,  was  sheltered 
and  sunny,  while  the  best  protected  corner 
was  at  the  same  time  one  of  those  peculiarly 
springy  spots  in  which  the  grass  keeps  green 
the  winter  through.  Here,  then,  these  seven 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  49 

wayfarers  stayed  week  after  week.  When- 
ever I  stole  up  cautiously  and  peeped  over 
the  bank  into  their  verdant  hiding-place,  I 
was  sure  to  hear  the  familiar  cry;  and  di- 
rectly one  bird,  and  then  another,  and  an- 
other, would  start  up  before  me,  disclosing 
the  characteristic  brown  feathers  of  the 
lower  back.  They  commonly  assembled  in 
the  middle  of  the  marsh  upon  the  snow  or 
ice,  where  they  stood  for  a  little,  bobbing 
their  heads  in  mutual  conference,  and  then 
flew  off  over  the  house  and  over  the  orchard, 
calling  as  they  flew. 

Throughout  December,  and  indeed 
throughout  the  winter,  brown  creepers  and 
red  -  bellied  nuthatches  were  surprisingly 
abundant.  Every  pine  wood  seemed  to  have 
its  colony  of  them.  Whether  the  extraordi- 
nary mildness  of  the  season  had  anything  to 
do  with  this  I  cannot  say ;  but  their  pres- 
ence was  welcome,  whatever  the  reason  for 
it.  Like  the  chickadee,  with  whom  they 
have  the  good  taste  to  be  fond  of  associat- 
ing, they  are  always  busy  and  cheerful,  ap- 
pearing not  to  mind  either  snow-storm  or 
low  temperature.  No  reasonable  observer 
would  ever  tax  them  with  effeminacy,  though 


50  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

the  creeper,  it  must  be  owned,  cannot  speak 
without  lisping. 

Following  my  usual  practice,  I  began  a 
catalogue  of  the  month's  birds,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  fortnight  discovered,  to  my  aston- 
ishment, that  the  name  of  the  downy  wood- 
pecker was  missing.  He  had  been  common 
during  November,  and  is  well  known  as  one 
of  our  familiar  winter  residents.  I  began 
forthwith  to  keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  him, 
particularly  whenever  I  went  near  any  apple 
orchard.  A  little  later,  I  actually  com- 
menced making  excursions  on  purpose  to 
find  him.  But  the  fates  were  against  me, 
and  go  where  I  would,  he  was  not  there. 
At  last  I  gave  him  up.  Then,  on  the  27th, 
as  I  sat  at  my  desk,  a  chickadee  chirped 
outside.  Of  course  I  looked  out  to  see  him ; 
and  there,  exploring  the  branches  of  an  old 
apple-tree,  directly  under  my  window,  was 
the  black-and-white  woodpecker  for  whom 
I  had  been  searching  in  vain  through  five 
or  six  townships.  The  saucy  fellow!  He 
rapped  smartly  three  or  four  times ;  then  he 
straightened  himself  back,  as  woodpeckers 
do,  and  said:  "Good-morning,  sir!  Where 
have  you  been  so  long  ?  If  you  wish  to  see 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  51 

me,  you  had  better  stay  at  home."  He  might 
have  spoken  a  little  less  pertly;  for  after 
all,  if  a  man  would  know  what  is  going  on, 
whether  in  summer  or  winter,  he  must  not 
keep  too  much  in  his  own  door-yard.  Of 
the  thirty  birds  in  my  December  list,  I 
should  have  seen  perhaps  ten  if  I  had  sat  all 
the  time  at  my  window,  and  possibly  twice 
that  number  had  I  confined  my  walks  within 
the  limits  of  my  own  town. 

While  the  migration  is  going  on,  to  be 
sure,  one  may  find  birds  in  the  most  unex- 
pected places.  Last  May  I  glanced  up  from 
my  book  and  espied  an  olive-backed  thrush 
in  the  back  yard,  foraging  among  the  cur- 
rant-bushes. Raising  a  window  quietly,  I 
whistled  something  like  an  imitation  of  his 
inimitable  song;  and  the  little  traveler  — 
always  an  easy  dupe  —  pricked  up  his  ears, 
and  presently  responded  with  a  strain  which 
carried  me  straight  into  the  depths  of  a 
White  Mountain  forest.  But  in  December, 
with  some  exceptions,  of  course,  birds  must 
be  sought  after  rather  than  waited  for.  The 
15th,  for  example,  was  a  most  uncomforta- 
ble day,  —  so  uncomfortable  that  I  stayed 
indoors,0 —  the  mercury  only  two  or  three 


52  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

degrees  above  zero,  and  a  strong  wind  blow- 
ing. Such  weather  would  drive  the  birds 
under  shelter.  The  next  forenoon,  there- 
fore, I  betook  myself  to  a  hill  covered  thickly 
with  pines  and  cedars.  Here  I  soon  ran 
upon  several  robins,  feeding  upon  the  savin 
berries,  and  in  a  moment  more  was  surprised 
by  a  tseep  so  loud  and  emphatic  that  I  thought 
at  once  of  a  fox  sparrow.  Then  I  looked 
for  a  song  sparrow,  —  badly  startled,  per- 
haps, —  but  found  to  my  delight  a  white- 
throat.  He  was  on  the  ground,  but  at  my 
approach  flew  into  a  cedar.  Here  he  drew 
in  his  head  and  sat  perfectly  still,  the  pic- 
ture of  discouragement.  I  could  not  blame 
him,  but  was  glad,  an  hour  later,  to  find 
him  again  on  the  ground,  picking  up  his 
dinner.  I  leveled  my  glass  at  him  and 
whistled  his  Peabody  song  (the  simplest  of 
all  bird  songs  to  imitate),  but  he  moved  not 
a  feather.  Apparently  he  had  never  heard 
it  before !  He  was  still  there  in  the  after- 
noon, and  I  had  hopes  of  his  remaining 
through  the  winter ;  but  I  never  could  find 
him  afterwards.  Ten  days  prior  to  this  I 
had  gone  to  Longwood  on  a  special  hunt  for 
this  same  sparrow,  remembering  a  certain 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  53 

peculiarly  cozy  hollow  where,  six  or  eight 
years  before,  a  little  company  of  song  spar- 
rows and  white-throats  had  passed  a  rather 
severe  winter.  The  song  sparrows  were 
there  again,  as  I  had  expected,  but  no  white- 
throats.  The  song  sparrows,  by  the  way, 
treated  me  shabbily  this  season.  A  year 
ago  several  of  them  took  up  their  quarters 
in  a  roadside  garden  patch,  where  I  could 
look  in  upon  them  almost  daily.  This  year 
there  were  none  to  be  discovered  anywhere 
in  this  neighborhood.  They  figure  in  my 
December  list  on  four  days  only,  and  were 
found  in  four  different  towns,  —  Brookline 
(Longwood),  Marblehead,  Nahant,  and  Co- 
hasset.  Like  some  others  of  our  land  birds 
(notably  the  golden-winged  woodpecker  and 
the  meadow  lark),  they  seem  to  have  learned 
that  winter  loses  a  little  of  its  rigor  along 
the  sea-board. 

Three  kinds  of  land  birds  were  met  with 
at  Nahant  Beach,  and  nowhere  else:  the 
Ipswich  sparrow,  —  on  the  3d  and  26th,  — 
the  snow  bunting,  and  the  horned  lark.  Of 
the  last  two  species,  both  of  them  rather 
common  in  November,  I  saw  but  one  in- 
dividual each.  They  were  feeding  side  by 


54  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

side,  and,  after  a  short  separation,  —  under 
the  fright  into  which  my  sudden  appearance 
put  them,  —  one  called  to  the  other,  and  they 
flew  off  in  company  towards  Lynn.  It  was 
a  pleasing  display  of  sociability,  but  no- 
thing new;  for  in  winter,  as  every  observer 
knows,  birds  not  of  a  feather  flock  together. 
The  Ipswich  sparrow,  a  very  retiring  but 
not  peculiarly  timid  creature,  I  have  now 
seen  at  Nahant  in  every  one  of  our  seven 
colder  months,  —  from  October  to  April,  — 
though  it  is  unquestionably  rare  upon  the 
Massachusetts  coast  between  the  fall  and 
spring  migrations.  Besides  the  species  al- 
ready named,  my  monthly  list  included  the 
following :  herring  gull,  great  black-backed 
gull,  ruffed  grouse,  hairy  woodpecker,  flick- 
er, goldfinch,  tree  sparrow,  snowbird,  blue 
jay,  crow,  shrike,  white  -  bellied  nuthatch 
(only  two  or  three  birds),  golden  -  crowned 
kinglet,  and  one  small  hawk.1 

The  only  birds  that  sang  during  the  month 

1  To  this  list  my  ornithological  comrade  before  men- 
tioned added  seven  species,  namely :  white-winged  scoter, 
barred  owl,  cowbird,  purple  finch,  white-winged  cross- 
bill, fox  sparrow,  and  winter  wren.  Between  us,  as  far 
as  land  birds  went,  we  did  pretty  well. 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  55 

—  unless  we  include  the  red -bellied  nut- 
hatches, whose  frequent  quaint  twitterings 
should,  perhaps,  come  under  this  head  — 
were  the  chickadees  and  a  single  robin.  The 
former  1  have  down  as  uttering  their  sweet 
phoebe  whistle  —  which  I  take  to  be  cer- 
tainly their  song,  as  distinguished  from  all 
their  multifarious  calls  —  on  seven  of  the 
thirty-one  days.  They  were  more  tuneful 
in  January,  and  still  more  so  in  February; 
so  that  the  titmouse,  as  becomes  a  creature 
so  full  of  good  humqr  and  high  spirits,  may 
fairly  be  said  to  sing  all  winter  long.  The 
robin's  music  was  a  pleasure  quite  unex- 
pected. I  was  out  on  Sunday,  the  30th,  for 
a  few  minutes'  stroll  before  breakfast,  when 
the  obliging  stranger  (I  had  not  seen  a  robin 
for  a  fortnight,  and  did  not  see  another  for 
nearly  two  months)  broke  into  song  from  a 
hill-top  covered  with  pitch-pines.  He  was 
in  excellent  voice,  and  sang  again  and 
again.  The  morning  invited  music,  — 
warm  and  cloudless,  like  an  unusually  fine 
morning  in  early  April. 

For  an  entire  week,  indeed,  the  weather 
had  seemed  to  be  trying  to  outdo  itself.  I 
remember  in  particular  the  day  before 


56  DECEMBER  OUT-OF-DOORS. 

Christmas.  I  rose  long  before  daylight, 
crossed  the  Mystic  River  marshes  as  the 
dawn  was  beginning  to  break,  and  shortly 
after  sunrise  was  on  my  way  down  the  South 
Shore.  Leaving  the  cars  at  Cohasset,  I 
sauntered  over  the  Jerusalem  Road  to  Nan- 
tasket,  spent  a  little  while  on  the  beach, 
and  brought  up  at  North  Cohasset,  where  I 
was  attracted  by  a  lonesome-looking  road 
running  into  the  woods  all  by  itself,  with  a 
guide-board  marked  "Turkey  Hill."  Why 
not  accept  the  pleasing  invitation,  which 
seemed  meant  on  purpose  for  just  such  an 
idle  pedestrian  as  myself?  As  for  Turkey 
Hill,  I  had  never  heard  of  it,  and  presumed 
it  to  be  some  uninteresting  outlying  hamlet. 
My  concern,  as  a  saunter er's  ought  always 
to  be,  was  with  the  road  itself,  not  with 
what  might  lie  at  the  end  of  it.  I  did  not 
discover  my  mistake  till  I  had  gone  half  a 
mile,  more  or  less,  when  the  road  all  at  once 
turned  sharply  to  the  right  and  commenced 
ascending.  Then  it  dawned  upon  me  that 
Turkey  Hill  must  be  no  other  than  the  long, 
gradual,  grassy  slope  at  which  I  had  already 
been  looking  from  the  railway  station.  The 
prospect  of  sea  and  land  was  beautiful;  all 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  57 

the  more  so,  perhaps,  because  of  a  thick 
autumnal  haze.  It  might  be  called  excellent 
Christmas  weather,  I  said  to  myself,  when 
a  naturally  prudent  man,  no  longer  young, 
could  sit  perched  upon  a  fence  rail  at  the 
top  of  a  hill,  drinking  in  the  beauties  of  the 
landscape. 

At  the  station,  after  my  descent,  I  met  a 
young  man  of  the  neighborhood.  "Do  you 
know  why  they  call  that  Turkey  Hill?  "  said 
I.  "No,  sir,  I  don't,"  he  answered.  I 
suggested  that  probably  somebody  had  killed 
a  wild  turkey  up  there  at  some  time  or 
other.  He  looked  politely  incredulous.  "  I 
don't  think  there  are  any  wild  turkeys  up 
there,"  said  he;  "/never  saw  any."  He 
was  not  more  than  twenty-five  years  old,  and 
the  last  Massachusetts  turkey  was  killed  on 
Mount  Tom  in  1847,  so  that  I  had  no  doubt 
he  spoke  the  truth.  Probably  he  took  me 
for  a  simple-minded  fellow,  while  I  thought 
nothing  worse  of  him  than  that  he  was  one  of 
those  people,  so  numerous  and  at  the  same 
time  so  much  to  be  pitied,  who  have  never 
studied  ornithology. 

The  25th  was  warmer  even  than  the  24th ; 
and  it,  likewise,  I  spent  upon  the  South 


58  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

Shore,  though  at  a  point  somewhat  farther 
inland,  and  in  a  town  where  I  was  not  likely 
to  lose  myself,  least  of  all  in  any  out-of- 
the-way  woodland  road.  In  short,  I  spent 
Christmas  on  my  native  heath,  —  a  not  in- 
appropriate word,  by  the  bye,  for  a  region 
so  largely  grown  up  to  huckleberry  bushes. 
"Holbrook's  meadows,"  and  "Norton  pas- 
ture! "  —  the  names  are  not  to  be  found  on 
any  map,  and  will  convey  no  meaning  to  my 
readers ;  but  in  my  ears  they  awaken  mem- 
ories of  many  and  many  a  sunny  hour.  On 
this  holiday  I  revisited  them  both.  Warm 
as  it  was,  boys  and  girls  were  skating  on  the 
meadows  (in  spite  of  their  name,  these  have 
been  nothing  but  a  pond  for  as  long  as  I 
can  remember),  and  I  stood  awhile  by  the 
old  Ross  cellar,  watching  their  evolutions. 
How  bright  and  cheery  it  was  in  the  little 
sheltered  clearing,  with  nothing  in  sight  but 
the  leafless  woods  and  the  ice-covered  pond ! 
"Shan't  I  take  your  coat?  "  the  sun  seemed 
to  be  asking.  At  my  elbow  stood  a  bunch 
of  lilac  bushes  ("laylocks  "  they  were  prob- 
ably called  by  the  man  who  set  them  out J) 

1  So  they  were  called,  too,  by  that  lover  of  flowers, 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  who,  as  his  biographer  says,  fol- 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  59 

that  had  blossomed  freely  in  the  summer. 
The  house  has  been  gone  for  these  thirty 
years  or  more  (alas!  my  sun  must  be  rap- 
idly declining  when  memory  casts  so  long 
a  shadow),  but  the  bushes  seem  likely  to 
hold  their  own  for  at  least  a  century.  They 
might  have  prompted  a  wise  man  to  some 
wise  reflections ;  but  for  myself,  it  must  be 
acknowledged,  I  fell  instead  to  thinking  how 
many  half  days  I  had  fished  —  and  caught 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing  —  along  this 
same  pleasant,  willow-bordered  shore. 

In  Norton  pasture,  an  hour  or  two  later, 
I  made  myself  young  again  by  putting  a  few 
checkerberries  into  my  mouth;  and  in  a 
small  new  clearing  just  over  the  brook 
("Dyer's  Run,"  this  used  to  be  called,  but 
I  fear  the  name  is  falling  into  forgetfulness) 
I  stumbled  upon  a  patch  of  some  handsome 
evergreen  shrub,  which  I  saw  at  once  to  be 
a  novelty.  I  took  it  for  a  member  of  the 
heath  family,  but  it  proved  to  belong  with 
the  hollies,  —  Ilex  glabra,  or  ink-berry,  a 
plant  not  to  be  found  in  the  county  where  it 
is  my  present  lot  to  botanize.  So,  even  on 

lowed  a  pronunciation  "  traditional  in  many  old  English 
families." 


60  DECEMBER  OUT-OF-DOORS. 

my  native  heath,   I  had  discovered   some- 
thing new. 

The  flora  of  a  Massachusetts  December  is 
of  necessity  limited.  Even  in  the  month 
under  review,  singularly  favorable  as  it  was, 
I  found  but  sixteen  sorts  of  wild  blossoms ; 
a  small  number,  surely,  though  perhaps 
larger  by  sixteen  than  the  average  reader 
would  have  guessed.  The  names  of  these 
hardy  adventurers  must  by  no  means  go  un- 
recorded: shepherd's  purse,  wild  pepper- 
grass,  pansy,  common  chickweed  (Stellaria 
media),  mouse-ear  chickweed  (Cerastium 
viscosurri),  knawel,  common  mallow,  witch- 
hazel,  cinque-foil  (Potentilla  Norvegica,  — 
not  argentea,  as  I  should  certainly  have  ex- 
pected), many-flowered  aster,  cone -flower, 
yarrow,  two  kinds  of  groundsel,  fall  dande- 
lion, and  join  tweed.  Six  of  these  —  mallow, 
cinque-foil,  aster,  cone-flower,  fall  dande- 
lion, and  jointweed  —  were  noticed  only  at 
Nahant ;  and  it  is  further  to  be  said  that  the 
jointweed  was  found  by  a  friend,  not  by 
myself,  while  the  cone -flower  was  not  in 
strictness  a  blossom ;  that  is  to  say,  its  rays 
were  well  opened,  making  what  in  common 
parlance  is  called  a  flower,  but  the  true 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  61 

florets  were  not  yet  perfected.  Such  witch- 
hazel  blossoms  as  can  be  gathered  in  Decem- 
ber are  of  course  nothing  but  belated  speci- 
mens. I  remarked  a  few  on  the  2d,  and 
again  on  the  10th;  and  on  the  afternoon  of 
Christmas,  happening  to  look  into  a  hama- 
melis-tree,  I  saw  what  looked  like  a  flower 
near  the  top.  The  tree  was  too  small  for 
climbing  and  almost  too  large  for  bending, 
but  I  managed  to  get  it  down;  and  sure 
enough,  the  bit  of  yellow  was  indeed  a  per- 
fectly fresh  blossom.  How  did  it  know  I 
was  to  pass  that  way  on  Christmas  afternoon, 
and  by  what  sort  of  freemasonry  did  it  at- 
tract my  attention?  I  loved  it  and  left  it 
on  the  stalk,  in  the  true  Emersonian  spirit, 
and  here  I  do  my  little  best  to  embalm  its 
memory. 

One  of  the  groundsels  (Senecio  viscosus) 
is  a  recent  immigrant  from  Europe,  but  has 
been  thoroughly  established  in  the  Back 
Bay  lands  of  Boston  —  where  I  now  found  it, 
in  perfect  condition,  December  4th  —  for  at 
least  half  a  dozen  years.  In  Gray's  "Flora 
of  North  America"  it  is  said  to  grow  there 
and  in  the  vicinity  of  Providence ;  but  since 
that  account  was  written  it  has  made  its  ap- 


62  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

pearance  in  Lowell,  and  probably  in  other 
places.  It  is  a  coarse -looking  little  plant, 
delighting  to  grow  in  pure  gravel;  but  its 
blossoms  are  pretty,  and  now,  with  not 
another  flower  of  any  sort  near  it,  it  looked, 
as  the  homely  phrase  is,  "as  handsome  as 
a  picture."  Its  more  generally  distributed 
congener,  Senecio  vulgaris,  —  also  a  for- 
eigner —  is,  next  to  the  common  chickweed, 
I  should  say,  our  very  hardiest  bloomer. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  month  it  was  in 
flower  in  an  old  garden  in  Melrose ;  and  at 
Marblehead  Neck  a  considerable  patch  of  it 
was  fairly  yellow  with  blossoms  all  through 
December  and  January,  and  I  know  not 
how  much  longer.  I  saw  no  shepherd's 
purse  after  December  27th,  but  knawel  was 
in  flower  as  late  as  January  18th.  The 
golden-rods,  it  will  be  observed,  are  absent 
altogether  from  my  list ;  and  the  same  would 
have  been  true  of  the  asters,  but  for  a  single 
plant.  This,  curiously  enough,  still  bore 
five  heads  of  tolerably  fresh  blossoms,  after 
all  its  numberless  companions,  growing  upon 
the  same  hillside,  had  succumbed  to  the 
frost. 

Of  my  sixteen  plants,  exactly  one  half  are 


DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS.  63 

species  that  have  been  introduced  from  Eu- 
rope ;  six  are  members  of  the  composite  fam- 
ily ;  and  if  we  omit  the  cone -flower,  all  but 
three  of  the  entire  number  are  simple  whites 
and  yellows.  Two  red  flowers,  the  clover 
and  the  pimpernel,  disappointed  my  search ; 
but  the  blue  hepatica  would  almost  certainly 
have  been  found,  had  it  come  in  my  way  to 
look  for  it. 

Prettier  even  than  the  flowers,  however, 
was  the  December  greenness,  especially  of 
the  humbler  sorts:  St.  John's -wort,  five- 
finger,  the  creeping  blackberries,  —  whose 
modest  winter  loveliness  was  never  half 
appreciated,  —  herb-robert,  corydalis,  par- 
tridge -  berry,  checkerberry,  wintergreen, 
rattlesnake-plantain,  veronica,  and  linnsea, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  ferns  and  mosses. 
Most  refreshing  of  all,  perhaps,  was  an  oc- 
casional patch  of  bright  green  grass,  like  the 
one  already  spoken  of,  at  Marblehead,  or 
like  one  even  brighter  and  prettier,  which  I 
visited  more  than  once  in  Swampscott. 

As  I  review  what  I  have  written,  I  am 
tempted  to  exclaim  with  Tennyson :  — 

"  And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ?  " 


64  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

But  I  answer,  in  all  good  conscience,  yes. 
The  motto  with  which  I  began  states  the 
truth  somewhat  strongly,  perhaps  (it  must 
be  remembered  where  I  got  it),  but  aside 
from  that  one  bit  of  harmless  borrowed  hy- 
perbole, I  have  delivered  a  plain,  unvar- 
nished tale.  For  all  that,  however,  I  do 
not  expect  my  industrious  fellow-citizens  to 
fall  in  at  once  with  my  opinion  that  winter 
is  a  pleasant  season  at  the  seashore  (it 
would  be  too  bad  they  should,  as  far  as  my 
own  enjoyment  is  concerned),  and  December 
a  month  propitious  for  leisurely  all-day  ram- 
bles. How  foreign  such  notions  are  to  peo- 
ple in  general  I  have  lately  had  several  for- 
cible reminders.  On  one  of  my  jaunts  from 
Marblehead  to  Swampscott,  for  example,  I 
had  finally  taken  to  the  railway,  and  was  in 
the  narrow,  tortuous  cut  through  the  ledges, 
when,  looking  back,  I  saw  a  young  gentle- 
man coming  along  after  me.  He  was  in  full 
skating  rig,  fur  cap  and  all,  with  a  green 
bag  in  one  hand  and  a  big  hockey  stick  in 
the  other.  I  stopped  every  few  minutes  to 
listen  for  any  bird  that  might  chance  to  be 
in  the  woods  on  either  hand,  and  he  could 
not  well  avoid  overtaking  me,  though  he 


DECEMBER  OUT-OF-DOORS.  65 

seemed  little  desirous  of  doing  so.  The  spot 
was  lonesome,  and  as  he  went  by,  and  until 
he  was  some  rods  in  advance,  he  kept  his 
head  partly  turned.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  significance  of  that  furtive,  sidelong 
glance;  he  had  read  the  newspapers,  and 
didn't  intend  to  be  attacked  from  behind 
unawares !  If  he  should  ever  cast  his  eye 
over  these  pages  (and  whatever  he  may  have 
thought  of  my  appearance,  I  am  bound  to 
say  of  him  that  he  looked  like  a  man  who 
might  appreciate  good  literature),  he  will 
doubtless  remember  the  incident,  especially 
if  I  mention  the  field-glass  which  I  carried 
slung  over  one  shoulder.  Evidently  the 
world  sees  no  reason  why  a  man  with  any- 
thing better  to  do  should  be  wandering  aim- 
lessly about  the  country  in  midwinter.  Nor 
do  I  quarrel  with  the  world's  opinion.  The 
majority  is  wiser  than  the  minority,  of 
course ;  otherwise,  what  becomes  of  its  divine 
and  inalienable  right  to  lay  down  the  law  ? 
The  truth  with  me  was  that  I  had  nothing 
better  to  do.  I  confess  it  without  shame. 
Surely  there  is  no  lack  of  shoemakers. 
Why,  then,  should  not  here  and  there  a  man 
take  up  the  business  of  walking,  of  wearing 


66  DECEMBER   OUT-OF-DOORS. 

out  shoes?  Everything  is  related  to  every- 
thing else,  and  the  self  -  same  power  that 
brought  the  killdeers  to  Marblehead  sent  me 
there  to  see  them  and  do  them  honor. 
Should  it  please  the  gods  to  order  it  so,  I 
shall  gladly  be  kept  running  on  such  errands 
for  a  score  or  two  of  winters. 


DYEK'S  HOLLOW. 

"  Quiet  hours 

Pass'd  among  these  heaths  of  ours 
By  the  grey  Atlantic  sea." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

I  LIVED  for  three  weeks  at  the  "Castle," 
though,  unhappily,  I  did  not  become  aware 
of  my  romantic  good  fortune  till  near  the 
close  of  my  stay.  There  was  no  trace  of 
battlement  or  turret,  nothing  in  the  least 
suggestive  of  Warwick  or  Windsor,  or  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott.  In  fact,  the  Castle  was 
not  a  building  of  any  kind,  but  a  hamlet; 
a  small  collection  of  houses,  —  a  somewhat 
scattered  collection,  it  must  be  owned,  — 
such  as,  on  the  bleaker  and  sandier  parts 
of  Cape  Cod,  is  distinguished  by  the  name 
of  village.  On  one  side  flowed  the  river, 
doubling  its  course  through  green  meadows 
with  almost  imperceptible  motion.  As  I 
watched  the  tide  come  in,  I  found  myself 
saying,  — 


68  DYERS  HOLLOW. 

"  Here  twice  a  day  the  Pamet  fills, 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by." 

But  the  rising  flood  could  make  no  "si- 
lence in  the  hills;  "  for  the  Pamet,  as  I  saw 
it,  is  far  too  sedate  a  stream  ever  to  be 
caught  "babbling."  It  has  only  some  three 
miles  to  run,  and  seems  to  know  perfectly 
well  that  it  need  not  run  fast. 

My  room  would  have  made  an  ideal  study 
for  a  lazy  man,  I  thought,  the  two  windows 
facing  straight  into  a  sand-bank,  above 
which  rose  a  steep  hill,  or  perhaps  I  should 
rather  say  the  steep  wall  of  a  plateau,  on 
whose  treeless  top,  all  by  themselves,  or 
with  only  a  graveyard  for  company,  stood 
the  Town  Hall  and  the  two  village  churches. 
Perched  thus  upon  the  roof  of  the  Cape,  as 
it  were,  and  surmounted  by  cupola  and  bel- 
fry, the  hall  and  the  "orthodox"  church 
made  invaluable  beacons,  visible  from  far 
and  near  in  every  direction.  For  three 
weeks  I  steered  my  hungry  course  by  them 
twice  a  day,  having  all  the  while  a  pleasing 
consciousness  that,  however  I  might  skip  the 
Sunday  sermon,  I  was  by  no  means  neglect- 
ing my  religious  privileges.  The  second 
and  smaller  meeting-house  belonged  to  a 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  69 

Methodist  society.  On  its  front  were  the 
scars  of  several  small  holes  which  had  been 
stopped  and  covered  with  tin.  A  resident 
of  the  Castle  assured  me  that  the  mischief 
had  been  done  by  pigeon  woodpeckers,  — 
flickers,  —  a  statement  at  which  I  inwardly 
rejoiced.  Long  ago  I  had  announced  my  be- 
lief that  these  enthusiastic  shouters  must  be 
of  the  Wesleyan  persuasion,  and  here  was 
the  proof !  Otherwise,  why  had  they  never 
sought  admission  to  the  more  imposing  and, 
as  I  take  it,  more  fashionable  orthodox  sanc- 
tuary? Yes,  the  case  was  clear.  I  could 
understand  now  how  Darwin  and  men  like 
him  must  have  felt  when  some  great  hypoth- 
esis of  theirs  received  sudden  confirmation 
from  an  unexpected  quarter.  At  the  same 
time  I  was  pained  to  see  that  the  flickers' 
attempts  at  church-going  had  met  with  such 
indifferent  encouragement.  Probably  the 
minister  and  the  class  leaders  would  have 
justified  their  exclusivehess  by  an  appeal  to 
that  saying  about  those  who  enter  "not  by 
the  door  into  the  sheepfold ;  "  while  the  wood- 
peckers, on  their  part,  might  have  retorted 
that  just  when  they  had  most  need  to  go  in 
the  door  was  shut. 


70  DYERS  HOLLOW. 

One  of  my  favorite  jaunts  was  to  climb 
this  hill,  or  plateau,  the  "Hill  of  Storms" 
(I  am  still  ignorant  whether  the  storms  in 
question  were  political,  ecclesiastical,  or  at- 
mospheric, but  I  approve  the  name),  and 
go  down  on  the  other  side  into  a  narrow 
valley  whose  meanderings  led  me  to  the 
ocean  beach.  This  valley,  or,  to  speak  in 
the  local  dialect,  this  hollow,  like  the  paral- 
lel one  in  which  I  lived,  —  the  valley  of  the 
Pamet,  —  runs  quite  across  the  Cape,  from 
ocean  to  bay,  a  distance  of  two  miles  and  a 
half,  more  or  less. 

At  my  very  first  sight  of  Dyer's  Hollow 
I  fell  in  love  with  it,  and  now  that  I  have 
left  it  behind  me,  perhaps  forever,  I  foresee 
that  my  memories  of  it  are  likely  to  be  even 
fairer  and  brighter  than  was  the  place  itself. 
I  call  it  Dyer's  Hollow  upon  the  authority 
of  the  town  historian,  who  told  me,  if  I  un- 
derstood him  correctly,  that  this  was  its 
name  among  sailors,  to  whom  it  is  a  land- 
mark. By  the  residents  of  the  town  I  com- 
monly heard  it  spoken  of  as  Longnook  or 
Pike's  Hollow,  but  for  reasons  of  my  own  I 
choose  to  remember  it  by  its  nautical  desig- 
nation, though  myself  as  far  as  possible  from 
being  a  nautical  man. 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  71 

To  see  Dyer's  Hollow  at  its  best,  the  visi- 
tor should  enter  it  at  the  western  end,  and 
follow  its  windings  till  he  stands  upon  the 
bluff  looking  out  upon  the  Atlantic.  If  his 
sensations  at  all  resemble  mine,  he  will  feel, 
long  before  the  last  curve  is  rounded,  as  if 
he  were  ascending  a  mountain ;  and  an  odd 
feeling  it  is,  the  road  being  level,  or  sub- 
stantially so,  for  the  whole  distance.  At 
the  outset  he  is  in  a  green,  well-watered  val- 
ley on  the  banks  of  what  was  formerly  Little 
Harbor.  The  building  of  the  railway  em- 
bankment has  shut  out  the  tide,  and  what 
used  to  be  an  arm  of  the  bay  is  now  a  body 
of  fresh  water.  Luxuriant  cat-tail  flags 
fringe  its  banks,  and  cattle  are  feeding  near 
by.  Up  from  the  reeds  a  bittern  will  now 
and  then  start.  I  should  like  to  be  here 
once  in  May,  to  hear  the  blows  of  his  stake- 
driver's  mallet  echoing  and  reechoing  among 
the  close  hills.  At  that  season,  too,  all  the 
uplands  would  be  green.  So  we  were  told, 
at  any  rate,  though  the  pleasing  story  was 
almost  impossible  of  belief.  In  August,  as 
soon  as  we  left  the  immediate  vicinity  of 
Little  Harbor,  the  very  bottom  of  the  valley 
itself  was  parched  and  brown;  and  the  look 


72  DYER'S  HOLLOW. 

of  barrenness  and  drought  increased  as  we 
advanced,  till  toward  the  end,  as  the  last 
houses  were  passed,  the  total  appearance  of 
things  became  subalpine :  stunted,  weather- 
beaten  trees,  and  broad  patches  of  bearberry 
showing  at  a  little  distance  like  beds  of 
mountain  cranberry. 

All  in  all,  Dyer's  Hollow  did  not  impress 
me  as  a  promising  farming  country.  Acres 
and  acres  of  horseweed,  pinweed,  stone 
clover,  poverty  grass,1  reindeer  moss,  mouse- 
ear  everlasting,  and  bearberry !  No  wonder 
such  fields  do  not  pay  for  fencing-stuff.  ^  No 
wonder,  either,  that  the  dwellers  here  should 
be  mariculturalists  rather  than  agricultural- 
ists. And  still,  although  their  best  garden 
is  the  bay,  they  have  their  gardens  on  land 
also,  —  the  bottoms  of  the  deepest  hollows 
being  selected  for  the  purpose,  —  and  by 

1  In  looking  over  the  town  history,  I  was  pleased  to 
come  upon  a  note  in  defense  of  this  lowly  plant,  on  the 
score  not  only  of  its  beauty,  but  of  its  usefulness  in  hold- 
ing the  sand  in  place ;  but,  alas,  "  all  men  have  not 
faith,"  and  where  the  historian  wrote  Hudsonia  tomen- 
tosa  the  antipathetic  compositor  set  up  Hudsonia  tor- 
mentosa.  That  compositor  was  a  Cape  Cod  man,  —  I 
would  wager  a  dinner  upon  it.  "Thus  the  whirligig  of 
time  brings  in  his  revenges,"  I  hear  him  mutter,  as  he 
slips  the  superfluous  consonant  into  its  place. 


JDYER'S  HOLLOW.  73 

hook  or  by  crook  manage  to  coax  a  kind 
of  return  out  of  the  poverty-stricken  soil. 
Even  on  Cape  Cod  there  must  be  some  pota- 
toes to  go  with  the  fish.  Vegetables  raised 
under  such  difficulties  are  naturally  sweet  to 
the  taste,  and  I  was  not  so  much  surprised, 
therefore,  on  a  certain  state  occasion  at  the 
Castle,  to  see  a  mighty  dish  of  string  beans 
ladled  into  soup-plates  and  exalted  to  the 
dignity  of  a  separate  course.  Here,  too,  — 
but  this  was  in  Dyer's  Hollow,  —  I  found 
in  successful  operation  one  of  the  latest,  and, 
if  I  may  venture  an  unprofessional  opinion, 
one  of  the  most  valuable,  improvements  in 
the  art  of  husbandry.  An  old  man,  an  an- 
cient mariner,  no  doubt,  was  seated  on  a 
camp-stool  and  plying  a  hoe  among  his  cab- 
bages. He  was  bent  nearly  double  with  age 
("triple"  is  the  word  in  my  notebook,  but 
that  may  have  been  an  exaggeration),  and 
had  learned  wisdom  with  years.  I  regretted 
afterward  that  I  had  not  got  over  the  fence 
and  accosted  him..  I  could  hardly  have 
missed  hearing  something  rememberable. 
Yet  I  may  have  done  wisely  to  keep  the 
road.  Industry  like  his  ought  never  to  be 
intruded  upon  lightly.  Some,  I  dare  say, 


74  DYER'S  HOLLOW, 

would  have  called  the  sight  pathetic.  To 
me  it  was  rather  inspiring.  Only  a  day  or 
two  before,  in  another  part  of  the  township, 
I  had  seen  a  man  sitting  in  a  chair  among 
his  bean-poles  picking  beans.  Those  heavy, 
sandy  roads -and  steep  hills  must  be  hard 
upon  the  legs,  and  probably  the  dwellers 
thereabout  (unlike  the  Lombardy  poplars, 
which  there,  as  elsewhere,  were  decaying  at 
the  top)  begin  to  die  at  thev  lower  extremi- 
ties. It  was  not  many  miles  from  Dyer's 
Hollow  that  Thoreau  fell  in  with  the  old 
wrecker,  "a  regular  Cape  Cod  man,"  of 
whom  he  says  that  "he  looked  as  if  he  some- 
times saw  a  doughnut,  but  never  descended 
to  comfort."  Quite  otherwise  was  it  with 
my  wise-hearted  agricultural  economists; 
and  quite  otherwise  shall  it  be  with  me,  also, 
who  mean  to  profit  by  their  example.  If  I 
am  compelled  to  dig  when  I  get  old  (to 
beg  may  I  ever  be  ashamed!),  I  am  deter- 
mined not  to  forget  the  camp-stool.  The 
Cape  Cod  motto  shall  be  mine,  —  He  that 
hoeth  cabbages,  let  him  do  it  with  assiduity. 
This  aged  cultivator,  not  so  much  "on 
his  last  legs  "  as  beyond  them,  was  evidently 
a  native  of  the  soil,  but  several  of  the  few 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  75 

houses  standing  along  the  valley  road  were 
occupied  by  Western  Islanders.  I  was 
crossing  a  field  belonging  to  one  of  them 
when  the  owner  greeted  me;  a  milkman, 
as  it  turned  out,  proud  of  his  cows  and  of 
his  boy,  his  only  child.  "  How  old  do  you 
think  he  is?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the 
young  fellow.  It  would  have  been  inexcus- 
able to  disappoint  his  fatherly  expectations, 
and  I  guessed  accordingly:  "Seventeen  or 
eighteen."  "Sixteen,"  he  rejoined, —  "six- 
teen !  "  and  his  face  shone  till  I  wished  I  had 
set  the  figure  a  little  higher.  The  additional 
years  would  have  cost  me  nothing,  and  there 
is  no  telling  how  much  happiness  they  might 
have  conferred.  "Who  lives  there?  "  I  in- 
quired, turning  to  a  large  and  well  -  kept 
house  in  the  direction  of  the  bay.  "My 
nephew."  "Did  he  come  over  when  you 
did  ?  "  "  No,  I  sent  for  him. "  He  himself 
left  the  Azores  as  a  cabin  boy,  landed  here 
on  Cape  Cod,  and  settled  down.  Since 
then  he  had  been  to  California,  where  he 
worked  in  the  mines.  "Ah!  that  was  where 
you  got  rich,  was  it  ?  "  said  I.  "  Kich !  "  — 
this  in  a  tone  of  sarcasm.  But  he  added, 
"Well,  I  made  something."  His  praise  of 


76  DYER'S  HOLLOW. 

his  nearest  neighbor  —  whose  name  pro- 
claimed his  Cape  Cod  nativity  —  made  me 
think  well  not  only  of  his  neighbor,  but  of 
him.  There  were  forty -two  Portuguese 
families  in  Truro,  he  said.  "There  are 
more  than  that  in  Provincetown  ? "  I  sug- 
gested. He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Yes, 
about  half  the  people."  And  pretty  good 
people  they  are,  if  such  as  I  saw  were  fair 
representatives.  One  boy  of  fourteen  (un- 
like the  milkman's  heir,  he  was  very  small 
for  his  years,  as  he  told  me  with  engaging 
simplicity)  walked  by  my  side  for  a  mile  or 
two,  and  quite  won  my  heart.  A  true 
Nathanael  he  seemed,  in  whom  was  no  guile. 
He  should  never  go  to  sea,  he  said ;  nor  was 
he  ever  going  to  get  married  so  long  as  his 
father  lived.  He  loved  his  father  so  much, 
and  he  was  the  only  boy,  and  his  father 
could  n't  spare  him.  "But  didn  't  your 
father  go  to  sea?"  "Oh,  yes;  both  my  fa- 
thers went  to  sea."  That  was  a  puzzle ;  but 
presently  it  came  out  that  his  two  fathers 
were  his  father  and  his  grandfather.  He 
looked  troubled  for  a  moment  when  I  in- 
quired the  whereabouts  of  the  poorhouse,  in 
the  direction  of  which  we  happened  to  be 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  77 

going.  He  entertained  a  very  decided 
opinion  that  he  shouldn't  like  to  live  there; 
a  wholesome  aversion,  I  am  bound  to  main- 
tain, dear  Uncle  Yenner  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding. 

A  stranger  was  not  an  every-day  sight  in 
Dyer's  Hollow,  I  imagine,  and  as  I  went  up 
and  down  the  road  a  good  many  times  in  the 
course  of  my  visit,  I  came  to  be  pretty  well 
known.  So  it  happened  that  a  Western 
Islands  woman  came  to  her  front  door  once, 
broom  in  hand  and  the  sweetest  of  smiles  on 
her  face,  and  said,  "  Thank  you  for  that  five 
cents  you  gave  my  little  boy  the  other  day." 
"Put  that  in  your  pocket,"  I  had  said,  and 
the  obedient  little  man  did  as  he  was  bid- 
den, without  so  much  as  a  side  glance  at  the 
denomination  of  the  coin.  But  he  forgot 
one  thing,  and  when  his  mother  asked  him, 
as  of  course  she  did,  for  mothers  are  all 
alike,  "Did  you  thank  the  gentleman?"  he 
could  do  nothing  but  hang  his  head.  Hence 
the  woman's  smile  and  "thank  you,"  which 
made  me  so  ashamed  of  the  paltriness  of  the 
gift  (Thackeray  never  saw  a  boy  without 
wanting  to  give  him  a  sovereign  /)  that  my 
mention  of  the  matter  here,  so  far  from  in- 


78  DYER'S  HOLLOW. 

dicating  an  ostentatious  spirit,  ought  rather 
to  be  taken  as  a  mark  of  humility. 

All  things  considered,  I  should  hardly 
choose  to  settle  for  life  in  Dyer's  Hollow; 
but  with  every  recollection  of  the  place  I 
somehow  feel  as  if  its  score  or  two  of  inhab- 
itants were  favored  above  other  men.  Why 
is  it  that  people  living  thus  by  themselves, 
and  known  thus  transiently  and  from  the 
outside  as  it  were,  always  seem  in  memory 
like  dwellers  in  some  land  of  romance?  I 
cannot  tell,  but  so  it  is;  and  whoever  has 
such  a  picture  on  the  wall  of  his  mind  will 
do  well,  perhaps,  never  to  put  the  original 
beside  it.  Yet  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  quite 
thus  of  Dyer's  Hollow.  Once  more,  at 
least,  I  hope  to  walk  the  length  of  that  strag- 
gling road.  As  I  think  of  it  now,  I  behold 
again  those  beds  of  shining  bearberry  ("re- 
splendent" would  be  none  too  fine  a  word; 
there  is  no  plant  for  which  the  sunlight  does 
more),  loaded  with  a  wealth  of  handsome  red 
fruit.  The  beach-plum  crop  was  a  failure ; 
plum  wine,  of  the  goodness  of  which  I  heard 
enthusiastic  reports,  would  be  scarce;  but 
one  needed  only  to  look  at  the  bearberry 
patches  to  perceive  that  Cape  Cod  sand  was 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  79 

not  wanting  in  fertility  after  a  manner  of  its 
own.  If  its  energies  in  the  present  instance 
happened  to  be  devoted  to  ornament  rather 
than  utility,  it  was  not  for  an  untaxed  and 
disinterested  outsider  to  make  complaint; 
least  of  all  a  man  who  was  never  a  wine- 
bibber,  and  who  believes,  or  thinks  he  be- 
lieves, in  "art  for  art's  sake."  Within  the 
woods  the  ground  was  carpeted  with  trailing 
arbutus  and  a  profusion  of  checkerberry 
vines,  the  latter  yielding  a  few  fat  berries, 
almost  or  quite  a  year  old,  but  still  sound 
and  spicy,  still  tasting  "like  tooth-powder," 
as  the  benighted  city  boy  expressed  it.  It 
was  an  especial  pleasure  to  eat  them  here  in 
Dyer's  Hollow,  I  had  so  many  times  done 
the  same  in  another  place,  on  the  banks 
of  Dyer's  Run.  Lady's  -  slippers  likewise 
(nothing  but  leaves)  looked  homelike  and 
friendly,  and  the  wild  lily  of  the  valley,  too, 
and  the  pipsissewa.  Across  the  road  from 
the  old  house  nearest  the  ocean  stood  a  still 
more  ancient-seeming  barn,  long  disused,  to 
all  appearance,  but  with  old  maid's  pinks, 
catnip,  and  tall,  stout  pokeberry  weeds  yet 
flourishing  beside  it.  Old  maid's  pinks 
and  catnip !  Could  that  combination  have 
been  fortuitous? 


80  DYERS  HOLLOW. 

No  botanist,  nor  even  a  semi -scientific 
lover  of  growing  tilings,  like  myself,  can 
ever  walk  in  new  fields  without  an  eye  for 
new  plants.  While  coming  down  the  Cape 
in  the  train  I  had  seen,  at  short  intervals, 
clusters  of  some  strange  flower,  —  like  yellow 
asters,  I  thought.  At  every  station  I  jumped 
off  the  car  and  looked  hurriedly  for  speci- 
mens, till,  after  three  or  four  attempts,  I 
found  what  I  was  seeking,  —  the  golden  as- 
ter, CJiryso2^sisfalcata.  Here  in  Truro  it 
was  growing  everywhere,  and  of  course  in 
Dyer's  Hollow.  Another  novelty  was  the 
pale  greenbrier,  Smilax  glauca,  which  I  saw 
first  on  the  hill  at  Provincetown,  and  after- 
ward discovered  in  Longnook.  It  was  not 
abundant  in  either  place,  and  in  my  eyes  had 
less  of  beauty  than  its  familiar  relatives,  the 
common  greenbrier  (cat-brier,  horse-brier, 
Indian -brier)  of  my  boyhood,  and  the  car- 
rion flower.  This  glaucous  smilax  was  one 
of  the  plants  that  attracted  Thoreau's  atten- 
tion, if  I  remember  right,  though  I  cannot 
now  put  my  finger  upon  his  reference  to  it. 
Equally  new  to  me,  and  much  more  beau- 
tiful, as  well  as  more  characteristic  of  the 
place,  were  the  broom -crowberry  and  the 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  81 

greener  kind  of  poverty  grass  (Hudsonia 
ericoides),  inviting  pillows  or  cushions  of 
which,  looking  very  much  alike  at  a  little 
distance,  were  scattered  freely  over  the 
grayish  hills.  These  huddling,  low-lying 
plants  were  among  the  things  which  bestowed 
upon  Longnook  its  pleasing  and  remarkable 
mountain-top  aspect.  The  rest  of  the  veg- 
etation was  more  or  less  familiar,  I  believe : 
the  obtuse-leaved  milkweed,  of  which  I  had 
never  seen  so  much  before;  three  sorts  of 
goldenrod,  including  abundance  of  the  fra- 
grant odor  a;  two  kinds  of  yellow  gerardia, 
and,  in  the  lower  lands  at  the  western  end 
of  the  valley,  the  dainty  rose  gerardia,  just 
now  coming  into  bloom ;  the  pretty  Poly  gala 
polygama,  —  pretty,  but  not  in  the  same 
class  with  the  rose  gerardia;  ladies'  tresses; 
bayberry;  sweet  fern;  crisp-leaved  tansy; 
beach  grass ;  huckleberry  bushes,  for  whose 
liberality  I  had  frequent  occasion  to  be 
thankful;  bear  oak;  chinquapin;  choke- 
berry  ;  a  single  vine  of  the  Virginia  creeper ; 
wild  carrot ;  wild  cherry ;  the  common  brake, 
—  these  and  doubtless  many  more  were 
there,  for  I  made  no  attempt  at  a  full  cata- 
logue. There  must  have  been  wild  roses 


82  DYER'S  HOLLOW. 

along  the  roadside  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
thickets,  I  should  think,  yet  I  cannot  recol- 
lect them,  nor  does  the  name  appear  in  my 
penciled  memoranda.  Had  the  month  been 
June  instead  of  August,  notebook  and  mem- 
ory would  record  a  very  different  story,  I 
can  hardly  doubt;  but  out  of  flower  is  out 
of  mind. 

In  the  course  of  my  many  visits  to  Dyer's 
Hollow  I  saw  thirty-three  kinds  of  birds,  of 
the  eighty-four  species  in  my  full  Truro  list. 
The  number  of  individuals  was  small,  how- 
ever, and,  except  at  its  lower  end,  the  val- 
ley was,  or  appeared  to  be,  nearly  destitute 
of  feathered  life.  A  few  song  sparrows,  a 
cat-bird  or  two,  a  chewink  or  two,  a  field 
sparrow,  and  perhaps  a  Maryland  yellow- 
throat  might  be  seen  above  the  last  houses, 
but  as  a  general  thing  the  bushes  and  trees 
were  deserted.  Walking  here,  I  could  for 
the  time  almost  forget  that  I  had  ever  owned 
a  hobby-horse.  But  farther  down  the  hollow 
there  was  one  really  "birdy  "  spot,  to  bor- 
row a  word  —  useful  enough  to  claim  lexico- 
graphical standing  —  from  one  of  my  com- 
panions: a  tiny  grove  of  stunted  oaks,  by 
the  roadside,  just  at  the  point  where  I  nat- 


DYERS  HOLLOW.  83 

urally  struck  the  valley  when  I  approached 
it  by  way  of  the  Hill  of  Storms.  Here  I 
happened  upon  my  only  Cape  Cod  cowbird, 
a  full-grown  youngster,  who  was  being  min- 
istered unto  in  the  most  devoted  manner  by 
a  red-eyed  vireo,  —  such  a  sight  as  always 
fills  me  with  mingled  amusement,  astonish- 
ment, admiration,  and  disgust.  That  any 
bird  should  be  so  befooled  and  imposed 
upon!  Here,  too,  I  saw  at  different  times 
an  adult  male  blue  yellow-backed  warbler, 
and  a  bird  of  the  same  species  in  immature 
plumage.  It  seemed  highly  probable,  to  say 
the  least,  that  the  young  fellow  had  been 
reared  not  far  off,  the  more  so  as  the  neigh- 
boring Wellfleet  woods  were  spectral  with 
hanging  lichens,  of  the  sort  which  this  ex- 
quisite especially  affects.  At  first  I  won- 
dered why  this  particular  little  grove,  by  no 
means  peculiarly  inviting  in  appearance, 
should  be  the  favorite  resort  of  so  many 
birds,  —  robins,  orioles,  wood  pewees,  king- 
birds, chippers,  golden  warblers,  black-and- 
white  creepers,  prairie  warblers,  red-eyed 
vireos,  and  blue  yellow-backs;  but  I  pres- 
ently concluded  that  a  fine  spring  of  water 
just  across  the  road  must  be  the  attraction. 


84  DYERS  HOLLOW. 

Near  the  spring  was  a  vegetable  garden,  and 
here,  on  the  22d  of  August,  I  suddenly  es- 
pied a  water  thrush  teetering  upon  the  tip 
of  a  bean-pole,  his  rich  olive-brown  back 
glistening  in  the  sunlight.  He  soon  dropped 
to  the  ground  among  the  vines,  and  before 
long  walked  out  into  sight.  His  action  when 
he  saw  me  was  amusing.  Instead  of  darting 
back,  as  a  sparrow,  for  instance,  would  have 
done,  he  flew  up  to  the  nearest  perch;  that 
is,  to  the  top  of  the  nearest  bean-pole,  which 
happened  to  be  a  lath.  Wood  is  one  of  the 
precious  metals  on  Cape  Cod,  and  if  oars  are 
used  for  fence-rails,  and  fish-nets  for  hen- 
coops, why  not  laths  for  bean-poles  ?  The 
perch  was  narrow,  but  wide  enough  for  the 
bird's  small  feet.  Four  times  he  came  up 
in  this  way  to  look  about  him,  and  every 
time  alighted  thus  on  the  top  of  a  pole.  At 
the  same  moment  three  prairie  warblers  were 
chasing  each  other  about  the  garden,  now 
clinging  to  the  side  of  the  poles,  now  alight- 
ing on  their  tips.  It  was  a  strange  spot  for 
prairie  warblers,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  though 
they  looked  still  more  out  of  place  a  minute 
later,  when  they  left  the  bean-patch  and  sat 
upon  a  rail  fence  in  an  open  grassy  field. 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  85 

Cape  Cod  birds,  like  Cape  Cod  men,  know 
how  to  shift  their  course  with  the  wind. 
Where  else  would  one  be  likely  to  see  prairie 
warblers,  black-throated  greens,  and  black- 
and-white  creepers  scrambling  in  company 
over  the  red  shingles  of  a  house-roof,  and 
song  sparrows  singing  day  after  day  from  a 
chimney -top  ? 

In  all  my  wanderings  in  Dyer's  Hollow, 
only  once  did  I  see  anything  of  that  pest  of 
the  seashore,  the  sportsman;  then,  in  the 
distance,  two  young  fellows,  with  a  highly 
satisfactory  want  of  success,  as  well  as  I 
could  make  out,  were  trying  to  take  the  life 
of  a  meadow  lark.  No  doubt  they  found 
existence  a  dull  affair,  and  felt  the  need  of 
something  to  enliven  it.  A  noble  creature 
is  man,  —  "a  little  lower  than  the  angels!  " 
Two  years  in  succession  I  have  been  at  the 
seashore  during  the  autumnal  migration  of 
sandpipers  and  plovers.  Two  years  in  suc- 
cession have  I  seen  men,  old  and  young, 
murdering  sandpipers  and  plovers  at  whole- 
sale for  the  mere  fun  of  doing  it.  Had  they 
been  "pot  hunters,"  seeking  to  earn  bread 
by  shooting  for  the  market,  I  should  have 
pitied  them,  perhaps,  —  certainly  I  should 


86  DYER'S  HOLLOW. 

have  regretted  their  work ;  but  I  should  have 
thought  no  ill  of  them.  Their  vocation 
would  have  been  as  honorable,  for  aught  I 
know,  as  that  of  any  other  butcher.  But  a 
man  of  twenty,  a  man  of  seventy,  shooting 
sanderlings,  ring  plovers,  golden  plovers, 
and  whatever  else  comes  in  his  way,  not  for 
money,  nor  primarily  for  food,  but  because 
he  enjoys  the  work!  "A  little  lower  than 
the  angels!"  What  numbers  of  innocent 
and  beautiful  creatures  have  I  seen  limping 
painfully  along  the  beach,  after  the  gunners 
had  finished  their  day's  amusement!  Even 
now  I  think  with  pity  of  one  particular 
turnstone.  Some  being  made  "a  little 
lower  than  the  angels  "  had  fired  at  him  and 
carried  away  one  of  his  legs.  I  watched 
him  for  an  hour.  Much  of  the  time  he  stood 
motionless.  Then  he  hobbled  from  one 
patch  of  eel-grass  to  another,  in  search  of 
something  to  eat.  My  heart  ached  for  him, 
and  it  burns  now  to  think  that  good  men 
find  it  a  pastime  to  break  birds'  legs  and 
wings  and  leave  them  to  perish.  I  have 
seen  an  old  man,  almost  ready  for  the  grave, 
who  could  amuse  his  last  days  in  this  way 
for  weeks  together.  An  exhilarating  and 


DYER'S  HOLLOW.  87 

edifying  spectacle  it  was,  —  this  venerable 
worthy  sitting  behind  his  bunch  of  wooden 
decoys,  a  wounded  tern  fluttering  in  agony 
at  his  feet.  Withal,  be  it  said,  he  was  a 
man  of  gentlemanly  bearing,  courteous,  and 
a  Christian.  He  did  not  shoot  on  Sunday, 

—  not  he.     Such  sport  is  to  me  despicable. 
Yet  it  is  affirmed  by  those  who  ought  to 
know  —  by  those,  that  is,  who  engage  in  it 

—  that  it  tends  to  promote  a  spirit  of  man- 
liness. 

But  thoughts  of  this  kind  belong  not  in 
Dyer's  Hollow.  Kather  let  me  remember 
only  its  stillness  and  tranquillity,  its  inno- 
cent inhabitants,  its  gray  hills,  its  sandy 
road,  and  the  ocean  at  the  end  of  the  way. 
Even  at  the  western  extremity,  near  the  rail* 
way  and  the  busy  harbor,  the  valley  was  the 
very  abode  of  quietness.  Here,  on  one  of 
my  earlier  excursions,  I  came  unexpectedly 
to  a  bridge,  and  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
bridge  to  a  tidy  house  and  garden ;  and  in 
the  garden  were  several  pear-trees,  with 
fruit  on  them !  Still  more  to  my  surprise, 
here  was  a  little  shop.  The  keeper  of  it  had 
also  the  agency  of  some  insurance  company, 

—  so  a  signboard  informed  the  passer-by. 


88  DYER'S  HOLLOW. 

As  for  his  stock  in  trade,  —  sole  leather, 
dry  goods,  etc.,  —that  spoke  for  itself.  I 
stepped  inside  the  door,  but  he  was  occupied 
with  an  account  book,  and  when  at  last  he 
looked  up  there  was  no  speculation  in  his 
eyes.  Possibly  he  had  sold  something  the 
day  before,  and  knew  that  no  second  cus- 
tomer could  be  expected  so  soon.  We  ex- 
changed the  time  of  day,  —  not  a  very  val- 
uable commodity  hereabout,  —  and  I  asked 
him  a  question  or  two  touching  the  hollow, 
and  especially  "the  village,"  of  which  I  had 
heard  a  rumor  that  it  lay  somewhere  in  this 
neighborhood.  He  looked  bewildered  at  the 
word,  — he  hardly  knew  what  I  could  mean, 
he  said ;  but  with  a  little  prompting  he  re- 
collected that  a  few  houses  between  this  point 
and  North  Truro  (there  used  to  be  more 
houses  than  now,  but  they  had  been  removed 
to  other  towns,  —  some  of  them  to  Boston  !) 
were  formerly  called  "the  village."  I  left 
him  to  his  ledger,  and  on  passing  his  house 
I  saw  that  he  was  a  dealer  in  grain  as  well 
as  in  sole  leather  and  calico,  and  had  tele- 
phonic communication  with  somebody;  an 
enterprising  merchant,  after  all,  up  with  the 
times,  in  spite  of  appearances. 


DYERS  HOLLOW.  89 

The  shop  was  like  the  valley,  a  careless 
tourist  might  have  said,  —  a  sleepy  shop  in 
Sleepy  Hollow.  To  me  it  seemed  not  so. 
Peaceful,  remote,  sequestered,  —  these  and 
all  similar  epithets  suited  well  with  Long- 
iiook;  but  for  myself,  in  all  my  loitering 
there  I  was  never  otherwise  than  wide  awake. 
The  close-lying,  barren,  mountainous-look- 
ing hills  did  not  oppress  the  mind,  but 
rather  lifted  and  dilated  it,  and  although  I 
could  not  hear  the  surf,  I  felt  all  the  while 
the  neighborhood  of  the  sea;  not  the  har- 
bor, but  the  ocean,  with  nothing  between 
me  and  Spain  except  that  stretch  of  water. 
Blessed  forever  be  Dyer's  Hollow,  I  say, 
and  blessed  be  its  inhabitants!  Whether 
Western  Islanders  or  "regular  Cape  Cod 
men,"  may  they  live  and  die  in  peace. 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANS- 
FIELD. 

"  Lead  him  through  the  lovely  mountain-paths, 
And  talk  to  him  of  thing's  at  hand  and  common." 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

I  WENT  up  the  mountain  from  the  village 
of  Stowe  in  very  ignoble  fashion,  —  in  a 
wagon,  —  and  was  three  hours  on  the  pas- 
sage. One  of  the  "hands"  at  the  Summit 
House  occupied  the  front  seat  with  the 
driver,  and  we  were  hardly  out  of  the  village 
before  a  seasonable  toothache  put  him  in 
mind  of  his  pipe.  Would  smoking  be  offen- 
sive to  me?  he  inquired.  What  could  I  say, 
having  had  an  aching  tooth  before  now  my- 
self? It  was  a  pleasure  almost  beyond  the 
luxury  of  breathing  mountain  air  to  see 
the  misery  of  a  fellow-mortal  so  quickly  as- 
suaged. The  driver,  a  sturdy  young  Ver- 
monter,  was  a  man  of  different  spirit.  He 
had  never  used  tobacco  nor  drunk  a  glass  of 
"liquor,"  I  heard  him  saying.  Somebody 
had  once  offered  him  fifty  cents  to  smoke  a 
cigar. 


FIVE  DAYS  ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.     91 

"Why  didn't  you  take  it?"  asked  his 
companion  in  a  tone  of  wonder. 

"Well,  I  'm  not  that  kind  of  a  fellow,  to 
be  bought  for  fifty  cents." 

As  we  approached  the  base  of  the  moun- 
tain, a  white-throated  sparrow  was  piping 
by  the  roadside. 

"I  love  to  hear  that  bird  sing,"  said  the 
driver. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  surprised.  Our 
man  of  principle  was  also  a  man  of  senti- 
ment. 

"What  do  you  call  him?"  I  inquired,  as 
soon  as  I  could  recover  myself. 

"Whistling  Jack,"  he  answered;  a  new 
name  to  me,  and  a  good  one ;  it  would  take 
a  nicer  ear  than  mine  to  discriminate  with 
certainty  between  a  white-throat's  voice  and 
a  school-boy's  whistle. 

The  morning  had  promised  well,  but  be- 
fore we  emerged  from  the  forest  as  we  neared 
the  summit  we  drove  into  a  cloud,  and, 
shortly  afterward,  into  a  pouring  rain.  In 
the  office  of  the  hotel  I  found  a  company  of 
eight  persons,  four  men  and  four  women, 
drying  themselves  about  the  stove.  They 
had  left  a  village  twenty  miles  away  at  two 


92     FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

o'clock  that  morning  in  an  open  wagon  for 
an  excursion  to  the  summit.  Like  myself, 
they  had  driven  into  a  cloud,  and  up  to  this 
time  had  seen  nothing  more  distant  than  the 
stable  just  across  the  road,  within  a  stone's 
toss  of  the  window,  and  even  that  only  by 
glimpses.  One  of  the  party  was*  a  doctor, 
who  must  be  at  home  that  night.  Hour  after 
hour  they  watched  the  clouds,  or  rather  the 
rain  (we  were  so  beclouded  that  the  clouds 
could  not  be  seen),  and  debated  the  situation. 
Finally,  at  three  o'clock,  they  got  into  their 
open  wagon,  the  rain  pelting  them  fiercely, 
and  started  for  the  base.  Doubtless  they 
soon  descended  into  clear  weather,  but  not 
till  they  were  well  drenched.  Verily  the 
clouds  are  no  respecters  of  persons.  It  is 
nothing  to  them  how  far  you  have  come,  nor 
how  worthy  your  errand.  So  I  reflected, 
having  nothing  better  to  do,  when  my  wag- 
onful  of  pilgrims  had  dropped  out  of  sight 
in  the  fog  —  as  a  pebble  drops  into  the  lake 
—  leaving  me  with  the  house  to  myself ;  and 
presently,  as  I  sat  at  the  window,  I  heard 
a  white-throated  sparrow  singing  outside. 
Here  was  one,  at  least,  whom  the  rain  could 
not  discourage.  A  wild  and  yet  a  sweet  and 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.    93 

home-felt  strain  is  this  of  "  Whistling  Jack," 
—  a  mountain  bird,  well  used  to  mountain 
weather,  and  just  now  too  happy  to  forego 
his  music,  no  matter  how  the  storm  might 
rage.  I  myself  had  been  in  a  cloud  often 
enough  to  feel  no  great  degree  of  discomfort 
or  lowness  of  spirits.  I  had  not  decided  to 
spend  the  precious  hours  of  a  brief  vacation 
upon  a  mountain-top  without  taking  into 
account  the  additional  risk  of  unfavorable 
weather  in  such  a  place.  Let  the  clouds  do 
their  worst ;  I  could  be  patient  and  wait  for 
the  sun.  But  this  whistling  philosopher  out- 
side spoke  of  something  better  than  patience, 
and  I  thanked  him  for  the  timely  word. 

Toward  noon  of  the  next  day  the  rain 
ceased,  the  cloud  vanished,  and  I  made  haste 
to  clamber  up  the  rocky  peak  —  the  Nose, 
so  called  —  at  the  base  of  which  the  hotel  is 
situated.  Yes,  there  stretched  Lake  Cham- 
plain,  visible  for  almost  its  entire  length, 
and  beyond  it  loomed  the  Adirondacks.  I 
was  glad  I  had  come.  /  could  sing  now. 
It  does  a  man  good  to  look  afar  off. 

Even  before  the  fog  lifted  I  had  discov- 
ered, to  my  no  small  gratification,  that  the 
evergreens  immediately  about  the  house  were 


94    FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

full  of  gray-cheeked  thrushes,  a  close  col- 
ony, strictly  confined  to  the  low  trees  at  the 
top  of  the  mountain.  They  were  calling  at 
all  hours,  yeep,  yeep,  somewhat  in  the  man- 
ner of  young  chickens ;  and  after  supper,  as 
it  grew  dark,  I  stood  on  the  piazza  while 
they  sang  in  full  chorus.  At  least  six  of 
them  were  in  tune  at  once.  TFee-o,  wee-o^ 
tit-ti  wee-o,  something1  like  this  the  music 
ran,  with  many  variations;  a  most  ethereal 
sound,  at  the  very  top  of  the  scale,  but  faint 
and  sweet ;  quite  in  tune  also  with  my  mood, 
for  I  had  just  come  in  from  gazing  long  at 
the  sunset,  with  Lake  Champlain  like  a  sea 
of  gold  for  perhaps  a  hundred  miles,  and  a 
stretch  of  the  St.  Lawrence  showing  far 
away  in  the  north.  During  the  afternoon, 
too,  I  had  been  over  the  long  crest  of  the 
mountain  to  the  northern  peak,  the  highest 
point,  belittled  in  local  phraseology  as  the 
Chin;  a  delightful  jaunt  of  two  miles,  with 
magnificent  prospects  all  the  way.  It  was 
like  walking  on  the  ridge-pole  of  Vermont, 
a  truly  exhilarating  experience. 

All  in  all,  though  the  forenoon  had  been 
so  rainy,  I  had  lived  a  long  day,  and  now, 
if  ever,  could  appreciate  the  singing  of  this 


FTVE  DAYS  ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.    95 

characteristic  northern  songster,  himself 
such  a  lover  of  mountains  as  never  to  be 
heard,  here  in  New  England,  at  least,  and 
in  summer-time,  except  amid  the  dwindling 
spruce  forests  of  the  upper  slopes.  I  have 
never  before  seen  him  so  familiar.  On  the 
Mount  Washington  range  and  on  Mount 
Lafayette  it  is  easy  enough  to  hear  his 
music,  but  one  rarely  gets  more  than  a  fly- 
ing glimpse  of  the  bird.  Here,  as  I  say,  Ije 
was  never  out  of  hearing,  and  seldom  long 
out  of  sight,  even  from  the  door-step.  The 
young  were  already  leaving  the  nest,  and  un- 
doubtedly the  birds  had  disposed  themselves 
for  the  season  before  the  unpainted,  inoffen- 
sive-looking little  hotel  showed  any  signs  of 
occupancy.  The  very  next  year  a  friend  of 
mine  visited  the  place  and  could  discover  no 
trace  of  them.  They  had  found  their  human 
neighbors  a  vexation,  perhaps,  and  on  re- 
turning from  their  winter's  sojourn  in  Costa 
Eica,  or  where  not,  had  sought  summer 
quarters  on  some  less  trodden  peak. 

Not  so  was  it  with  the  myrtle  warblers,  I 
venture,  to  assert,  though  on  this  point  I 
have  never  taken  my  friend's  testimony. 
Perfectly  at  home  as  they  are  in  the  wildest 


96   FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

and  most  desolate  places,  they  manifest  a 
particular  fondness  for  the  immediate  vicin- 
ity of  houses,  delighting  especially  to  fly 
about  the  gutters  of  the  roof  and  against  the 
window  panes.  Here,  at  the  Summit 
House,  they  were  constantly  to  be  seen  hawk- 
ing back  and  forth  against  the  side  of  the 
building,  as  barn  swallows  are  given  to  doing 
in  the  streets  of  cities.  The  rude  structure 
was  doubly  serviceable,  —  to  me  a  shelter, 
and  to  the  birds  a  fly-trap.  I  have  never  ob- 
served any  other  warbler  thus  making  free 
with  human  habitations. 

This  yellow-rump,  or  myrtle  bird,  is  one 
of  the  thrifty  members  of  his  great  family, 
and  next  to  the  black-poll  is  the  most  numer- 
ous representative  of  his  tribe  in  Massachu- 
setts during  the  spring  and  fall  migrations ; 
a  beautiful  little  creature,  with  a  character- 
istic flight  and  call,  and  for  a  song  a  pretty 
trill  suggestive  of  the  snow-bird's.  Within 
two  or  three  years  he  has  been  added  to  the 
summer  fauna  of  Massachusetts,  and  as  a 
son  of  the  Bay  State  I  rejoice  in  his  presence 
and  heartily  bid  him  welcome.  We  shall 
never  have  too  many  of  such  citizens.  I  es- 
teem him,  also,  as  the  only  one  of  his  deli- 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.    97 

cate,  insectivorous  race  who  has  the  hardi- 
hood to  spend  the  winter  —  sparingly,  but 
with  something  like  regularity  —  within  the 
limits  of  New  England.  He  has  a  genius  for 
adapting  himself  to  circumstances ;  picking 
up  his  daily  food  in  the  depths  of  a  moun- 
tain forest  or  off  the  panes  of  a  dwelling- 
house,  and  wintering,  as  may  suit  his  fancy 
or  convenience,  in  the  West  Indies  or  along 
the  sea-coast  of  Massachusetts. 

One  advantage  of  a  sojourn  at  the  summit 
of  any  of  our  wooded  New  England  moun- 
tains is  the  easy  access  thus  afforded  to  the 
upper  forest.  While  I  was  hereupon  Mount 
Mansfield  I  spent  some  happy  hours  almost 
every  day  in  sauntering  down  the  road  for 
a  mile  or  two,  looking  and  listening.  Just 
after  leaving  the  house  it  was  possible  to 
hear  three  kinds  of  thrushes  singing  at  once, 
—  gray -cheeks,  olive -backs,  and  hermits. 
Of  the  three  the  hermit  is  beyond  compar- 
ison the  finest  singer,  both  as  to  voice  and 
tune.  His  song,  given  always  in  three  de- 
tached measures,  each  higher  than  the  one 
before  it,  is  distinguished  by  an  exquisite 
liquidity,  the  presence  of  d  and  7,  I  should 
say,  as  contrasted  with  the  inferior  t  sound 


98   FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

of  the  gray-cheek.  If  it  has  less  variety,  and 
perhaps  less  rapture,  than  the  song  of  the 
wood-thrush,  it  is  marked  by  greater  sim- 
plicity and  ease ;  and  if  it  does  not  breathe 
the  ineffable  tranquillity  of  the  veery's 
strain,  it  comes  to  my  ear,  at  least,  with  a 
still  nobler  message.  The  hermit's  note 
is  aspiration  rather  than  repose.  "Peace, 
peace!"  says  the  veery,  but  the  hermit's 
word  is,  "Higher,  higher!"  "Spiritual 
songs,"  I  call  them  both,  with  no  thought 
of  profaning  the  apostolic  phrase. 

I  had  been  listening  to  thrush  music  (I 
think  I  could  listen  to  it  forever),  and  at  a 
bend  of  the  road  had  turned  to  admire  the 
wooded  side  of  the  mountain,  just  here  spread 
out  before  me,  miles  and  miles  of  magnifi- 
cent hanging  forest,  when  I  was  attracted  by 
a  noise  as  of  something  gnawing  —  a  borer 
under  the  bark  of  a  fallen  spruce  lying  at 
my  feet.  Such  an  industrious  and  contented 
sound !  No  doubt  the  grub  would  have  said, 
"Yes,  I  could  dp  this  forever."  What 
knew  he  of  the  beauties  of  the  picture  at 
which  I  was  gazing?  The  very  light  with 
which  to  see  it  would  have  been  a  torture 
to  him.  Heaven  itself  was  under  the  close 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.    99 

bark  of  that  decaying  log.  So,  peradven- 
ture,  may  we  ourselves  be  living  in  darkness 
without  knowing  it,  while  spiritual  intelli- 
gences look  on  with  wondering  pity  to  see  us 
so  in  love  with  our  prison-house.  Well, 
yonder  panorama  was  beautiful  to  me,  at  all 
events,  however  it  might  look  to  more  ex- 
alted beings,  and,  like  my  brother  under  the 
spruce-tree  bark,  I  would  make  the  best  of 
life  as  I  found  it. 

This  way  my  thoughts  were  running  when 
all  at  once  two  birds  dashed  by  me  —  a 
blackpoll  warbler  in  hot  pursuit  of  an  olive  - 
backed  thrush.  The  thrush  alighted  in  a 
tree  and  commenced  singing,  and  the  war- 
bler sat  by  and  waited,  following  the  univer- 
sal rule  that  a  larger  bird  is  never  to  be  at- 
tacked except  when  on  the  wing.  The  thrush 
repeated  his  strain  once  or  twice,  and  then 
flew  to  another  tree,  the  little  fellow  after 
him  with  all  speed.  Again  the  olive-back 
perched  and  sang,  and  again  the  black-poll 
waited.  Three  times  these  manoauvres  were 
repeated,  before  the  birds  passed  out  of  my 
range.  Some  wrong-doing,  real  or  fancied, 
on  the  part  of  the  larger  bird,  had  excited 
the  ire  of  the  warbler.  Why  should  he  be 


100    FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

imposed  upon,  simply  because  he  was  small? 
The  thrush,  meantime,  disdaining  to  defend 
himself,  would  only  stop  now  and  then  to 
sing,  as  if  to  show  to  the  world  (every  crea- 
ture is  the  centre  of  a  world)  that  such  an 
insect  persecution  could  never  ruffle  his 
spirit.  Birds  are  to  be  commiserated,  per- 
haps, on  having  such  an  excess  of  what  we 
call  human  nature ;  but  the  misfortune  cer- 
tainly renders  them  the  more  interesting  to 
us,  who  see  our  more  amiable  weaknesses  so 
often  reflected  in  their  behavior. 

For  the  sympathetic  observer  every  kind 
of  bird  has  its  own  temperament.  On  one 
of  my  jaunts  down  this  Mount  Mansfield 
road  I  happened  to  espy  a  Canada  jay  in  a 
thick  spruce.  He  was  on  one  of  the  lower 
branches,  but  pretty  soon  began  mounting 
the  tree,  keeping  near  the  bole  and  going  up 
limb  by  limb  in  absolute  silence,  exactly  in 
the  manner  of  our  common  blue  jay.  I  was 
glad  to  see  him,  but  more  desirous  to  hear 
his  voice,  the  loud,  harsh  scream  with  which 
the  books  credit  him,  and  which,  a  priori, 
I  should  have  little,  hesitation  in  ascribing  to 
any  member  of  his  tribe.  I  waited  till  I 
grew  impatient.  Then  I  started  hastily  to- 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MRNSFIVLD."  101 

ward  him,  making  as  much  commotion  as 
possible  in  pushing  through  the  undergrowth. 
It  was  a  clever  scheme,  but  the  bird  was  not 
to  be  surprised  into  uttering  so  much  as  an 
exclamation.  He  dropped  out  of  his  tree, 
flew  a  little  distance  to  a  lower  and  less  con- 
spicuous perch,  and  there  I  finally  left  him. 
Once  before,  on  Mount  Clinton,  I  had  seen 
him,  and  had  been  treated  with  the  same 
studied  silence.  And  later,  I  fell  in  with 
a  little  family  party  on  the  side  of  Mount 
Washington,  and  they,  too,  refused  me  so 
much  as  a  note.  Probably  I  was  too  near 
the  birds  in  every  case,  though  in  the  third 
instance  there  was  no  attempt  at  skulking, 
nor  any  symptom  of  nervousness.  I  have 
often  been  impressed  and  amused  by  the 
blue  jay's  habit  in  this  respect.  No  bird 
could  well  be  noisier  than  he  when  the  noisy 
mood  takes  him;  but  come  upon  him  sud- 
denly at  close  quarters,  and  he  will  be  as 
still  as  the  grave  itself.  He  has  a  double 
gift,  of  eloquence  and  silence,  —  silver  and 
gold  —  and  no  doubt  his  Canadian  cousin  is 
equally  well  endowed. 

The  reader  may  complain,  perhaps,  that 
I  speak  only  of  trifles.    Why  go  to  a  moun- 


102    TOFS   DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

tain-top  to  look  at  warblers  and  thrushes? 
I  am  not  careful  to  justify  myself.  I  love  a 
mountain-top,  and  go  there  because  I  love 
to  be  there.  It  is  good,  I  think,  to  be  lifted 
above  the  every -day  level,  and  to  enjoy  the 
society  —  and  the  absence  of  society  —  which 
the  heights  afford.  Looking  over  my  notes 
of  this  excursion,  I  come  upon  the  following 
sentence :  "To  sit  on  a  stone  beside  a  moun- 
tain road,  with  olive-backed  thrushes  piping 
on  every  side,  the  ear  catching  now  and  then 
the  distant  tinkle  of  a  winter  wren's  tune, 
or  the  nearer  zee,  zee,  zee  of  black-poll  war- 
blers, while  white-throated  sparrows  call 
cheerily  out  of  the  spruce  forest  —  this  is  to 
be  in  another  world." 

This  sense  of  distance  and  strangeness  is 
not  to  be  obtained,  in  my  case  at  all  events, 
by  a  few  hours'  stay  in  such  a  spot.  I  must 
pitch  my  tent  there,  for  at  least  a  night  or 
two.  I  cannot  even  see  the  prospect  at  first, 
much  less  feel  the  spirit  of  the  place.  There 
must  be  time  for  the  old  life  to  drop  off,  as 
it  were,  while  eye  and  ear  grow  wonted  to 
novel  sights  and  sounds.  Doubtless  I  did 
take  note  of  trivial  things,  —  the  call  of  a 
bird  and  the  fragrance  of  a  flower.  It  was 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.    103 

a  pleasing  relief  after  living  so  long  with 
men  whose  minds  were  all  the  time  full  of 
those  serious  and  absorbing  questions, "  What 
shall  we  eat,  and  what  shall  we  drink,  and 
wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed?  " 

I  remember  with  special  pleasure  a  profu- 
sion of  white  orchids  (Habenaria  dilatata) 
which  bordered  the  roadside  not  far  from 
the  top,  their  spikes  of  waxy  snow-white 
flowers  giving  out  a  rich,  spicy  odor  hardly 
to  be  distinguished  from  the  scent  of  carna- 
tion pinks.  I  remember,  too,  how  the  whole 
summit,  from  the  Nose  to  the  Chin,  was 
sprinkled  with  the  modest  and  beautiful 
Greenland  sandwort,  springing  up  in  every 
little  patch  of  thin  soil,  where  nothing  else 
would  flourish,  and  blossoming  even  under 
the  door-step  of  the  hotel.  Unpretendirig 
as  it  is,  this  little  alpine  adventurer  makes 
the  most  of  its  beauty.  The  blossoms  are 
not  crowded  into  close  heads,  so  as  to  lose 
their  individual  attractiveness,  like  the  flor- 
ets of  the  golden-rod,  for  example ;  nor  are 
they  set  in  a  stiff  spike,  after  the  manner  of 
the  orchid  just  now  mentioned.  At  the 
same  time  the  plant  does  not  trust  to  the 
single  flower  to  bring  it  into  notice.  It 


104    FIVE  DATS  ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

grows  in  a  pretty  tuft,  and  throws  out  its 
blossoms  in  a  graceful,  loose  cluster.  The 
eye  is  caught  by  the  cluster,  and  yet  each 
flower  shows  by  itself,  and  its  own  proper 
loveliness  is  in  no  way  sacrificed  to  the 
general  effect.  How  wise,  too,  is  the  sand- 
wort  in  its  choice  of  a  dwelling-place !  In 
the  valley  it  would  be  lost  amid  the  crowd. 
On  the  bare,  brown  mountain-top  its  scat- 
tered tufts  of  green  and  white  appeal  to  all 
comers. 

To  what  extent,  if  at  all,  the  sandwort  de- 
pends upon  the  service  of  insects  for  its  fer- 
tilization, I  do  not  know,  but  it  certainly  has 
no  scarcity  of  such  visitors.  "Bees  will 
soaf  for  bloom  high  as  the  highest  peak  of 
Mansfield;"  so  runs  an  entry  in  my  note- 
book, with  a  pardonable  adaptation  of 
Wordsworth's  line;  and  I  was  glad  to  no- 
tice that  even  the  splendid  black-and-yellow 
butterfly  (Turnus),  which  was  often  to  be 
seen  sucking  honey  from  the  fragrant  or- 
chids, did  not  disdain  to  sip  also  from  the 
sandwort 's  cup.  This  large  and  elegant  but- 
terfly —  our  largest  —  is  thoroughly  at  home 
on  our  New  England  mountains,  sailing  over 
the  very  loftiest  peaks,  and  making  its  way 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.     105 

through  the  forests  with  a  strong  and  steady 
flight.  Many  a  time  have  I  taken  a  second 
look  at  one,  as  it  has  threaded  the  treetops 
over  my  head,  thinking  to  see  a  bird.  Be- 
sides the  Turnus,  I  noted  here  the  nettle 
tortoise-shell  butterfly  (  Vanessa  Milberti  — 
a  showy  insect,  and  the  more  attractive  to 
me  as  being  comparatively  a  stranger);  the 
common  cabbage  butterfly ;  the  yellow  Phil- 
odice  ;  the  copper;  and,  much  more  abun- 
dant than  any  of  these,  a  large  orange-red 
fritillary  (Aphrodite,  I  suppose),  gorgeously 
bedecked  with  spots  of  silver  on  the  under 
surface  of  the  wings.  All  these  evidently 
knew  that  plenty  of  flowers  were  to  be  found 
along  this  seemingly  barren,  rocky  crest. 
Whether  they  have  any  less  sensuous  motive 
for  loving  to  wander  over  such  heights,  who 
will  presume  to  determine?  It  may  very 
well  be  that  their  almost  ethereal  structure 
—  such  spread  of  wing  with  such  lightness 
of  body  —  is  only  the  outward  sign  of  gra- 
cious thoughts  and  feelings,  of  a  sensitive- 
ness to  beauty  far  surpassing  anything  of 
which  we  ourselves  are  capable.  What  a 
contrast  between  them  and  the  grub  gnawing 
ceaselessly  under  the  spruce-tree  bark !  Can 


106    FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

the  highest  angel  be  as  far  above  the  lowest 
man?  And  yet  (how  mysteriously  sugges- 
tive would  the  fact  be,  if  only  it  were  new 
to  us!)  this  same  light-winged  Aphrodite, 
flitting  from  blossom  to  blossom  in  the  moun- 
tain breeze,  was  but  a  few  days  ago  an  ugly, 
crawling  thing,  close  cousin  to  the  borer. 
Since  then  it  has  fallen  asleep  and  been 
changed,  —  a  parable,  past  all  doubt,  though 
as  yet  we  lack  eyes  to  read  it. 

I  have  spoken  hitherto  as  if  I  were  the 
only  sojourner  at  the  summit,  but  there  was 
another  man,  though  I  seldom  saw  him;  a 
kind  of  hermit,  living  in  a  little  shanty 
under  the  lee  of  the  Nose.  Almost  as  a 
matter  of  course  he  was  reputed  to  be  of 
good  family  and  to  read  Greek,  and  the  fact 
that  he  now  and  then  received  a  bank  draft 
evidently  gave  him  a  respectable  standing 
in  the  eye  of  the  hotel  clerk.  Something  — 
something  of  a  very  romantic  nature,  we 
may  be  sure  —  had  driven  him  away  from 
the  companionship  of  his  fellows,  but  he 
still  found  it  convenient  to  be  within  reach 
of  human  society.  Like  all  such  solitaries, 
he  had  some  half -insane  notions.  He  could 
not  sleep  indoors,  not  for  a  night;  it  would 


FIVE  DAYS  ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.    107 

ruin  his  health,  if  I  understood  him  cor- 
rectly ;  and  because  of  wild  animals  —  bears 
and  what  not  —  he  made  his  bed  on  the  roof 
of  his  hermitage.  I  had  often  dreamed  of 
the  enjoyment  of  a  life  in  the  woods  all  by 
one's  self,  but  such  a  mode  of  existence  did 
not  gain  in  attractiveness  as  I  saw  it  here  in 
the  concrete  example.  On  the  whole  I  was 
well  satisfied  to  sleep  in  the  hotel  and  eat 
at  the  hotel  table.  Liberty  is  good,  but  I 
thought  it  might  be  undesirable  to  be  a  slave 
to  my  own  freedom. 

Two  or  three  times  a  wagon-load  of  tour- 
ists appeared  at  the  hotel.  They  strolled 
about  the  summit,  admired  the  prospect, 
picked  a  bunch  of  sandwort,  perhaps,  but 
especially  they  went  to  see  the  snow.  They 
had  been  at  much  trouble  to  stand  upon  the 
highest  land  in  Vermont,  and  now  that  they 
were  here,  they  wished  to  do  or  see  some- 
thing unique,  something  that  should  mark 
the  day  as  eventful.  So  they  were  piloted 
to  a  cave  midway  between  the  Nose  and  the 
Chin,  into  which  the  sun  never  peeped,  and 
wherein  a  snow-bank  still  lingered.  The 
mountain  was  grand,  the  landscape  was  mag- 
nificent, but  to  eat  a  handful  of  snow  and 


108    FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

throw  a  snow-ball  in  the  middle  of  July  — 
this  was  almost  like  being  at  the  North  Pole ; 
it  would  be  something  to  talk  about  after 
getting  home. 

One  visitor  I  rejoiced  to  see,  though  a 
stranger.  I  was  on*  the  Nose  in  the  after- 
noon, enjoying  once  more  the  view  of  Lake 
Champlain  and  the  Adirondacks,  when  I 
descried  two  men  far  off  toward  the  Chin. 
They  had  come  up  the  mountain,  not  by  the 
carriage  road,  but  by  a  trail  on  the  opposite 
side,  and  plainly  were  in  no  haste,  though 
the  afternoon  was  wearing  away.  As  I 
watched  their  movements,  a  mile  or  two  in 
the  distance,  I  said  to  myself,  "Good  !  they 
are  botanists."  So  it  proved;  or  rather  one 
of  them  was  a  botanist,  —  a  college  professor 
on  a  pedestrian  collecting-excursion.  We 
compared  notes  after  supper  and  walked 
together  the  next  morning,  enjoying  that 
peculiar  good  fellowship  which  nothing  but 
a  kindred  interest  and  au  unexpected  meet- 
ing in  a  lonesome  place  can  make  possible. 
Then  he  started  down  the  carriage  road  with 
the  design  of  exploring  Smugglers'  Notch, 
and  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  from  him 
since.  I  hope  he  is  still  botanizing  on  the 


FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD.     109 

shores  of  time,  and  finding  many  a  precious 
rarity ;  and  should  he  ever  read  this  refer- 
ence to  himself,  may  it  be  with  a  feeling 
as  kindly  as  that  with  which  the  lines  are 
written. 

That  afternoon  I  followed  him,  somewhat 
unexpectedly.  I  went  down,  as  I  had  come 
up,  on  wheels;  but  I  will  not  say  in  igno- 
ble fashion,  for  the  driver  —  the  hotel  pro- 
prietor himself  —  was  in  haste,  the  carriage 
had  no  brake,  and  the  speed  with  which  we 
rattled  down  the  steep  pitches  and  round 
the  sharp  curves,  with  the  certainty  that 
if  anything  should  break,  the  horse  would 
run  and  our  days  would  be  ended,  —  these 
things,  and  especially  the  latter  considera- 
tion, of  which  I  thought  and  the  other  man 
spoke,  made  the  descent  one  of  pleasurable 
excitement.  We  reached  the  base  in  safety 
and  I  was  left  at  the  nearest  farmhouse, 
where  by  dint  of  some  persuasion  the  house- 
wife was  induced  to  give  me  a  lodging  for 
the  night,  so  that  on  the  morrow  I  might 
make  a  long  day  in  Smugglers'  Notch,  a 
famous  botanical  resort  between  Mount 
Mansfield  and  Mount  Sterling,  which  I  had 
for  years  been  desirous  of  visiting. 


110    FIVE  DAYS   ON  MOUNT  MANSFIELD. 

I  would  gladly  have  stayed  longer  on  the 
heights,  but  it  was  pleasant  also  to  be  once 
more  in  the  lowlands ;  to  walk  out  after  sup- 
per and  look  up  instead  of  down,  while  the 
chimney  swifts  darted  hither  and  thither 
with  their  merry,  breathless  cacklings.  How 
welcome,  too,  were  the  hearty  music  of  the 
robin  and  the  carol  of  the  grass  finch !  Af- 
ter all,  I  thought,  home  is  in  the  valley ;  but 
the  whistle  of  the  white-throat  reminded  me 
that  I  was  not  yet  back  in  Massachusetts. 


A  WIDOW  AND  TWINS. 

"  The  fatherless  and  the  widow  .  .  .  shall  eat  and  be 
satisfied."  —  DEUTERONOMY  xiv.  29. 

ON  the  1st  of  June,  1890,  I  formally 
broke  away  from  ornithological  pursuits. 
For  two  months,  more  or  less,  —  till  the 
autumnal  migration  should  set  in,  —  I  was 
determined  to  have  my  thoughts  upon  other 
matters.  There  is  no  more  desirable  play- 
thing than  an  outdoor  hobby,  but  a  man 
ought  not  to  be  forever  in  the  saddle.  Such, 
at  all  events,  had  always  been  my  opinion, 
so  that  I  long  ago  promised  myself  never  to 
become,  what  some  of  my  acquaintances, 
perhaps  with  too  much  reason,  were  now 
beginning  to  consider  me,  a  naturalist,  and 
nothing  else.  That  would  be  letting  the 
hobby-horse  run  away  with  its  owner.  For 
the  time  being,  then,  birds  should  pass  un- 
noticed, or  be  looked  at  only  when  they  came 
in  my  way.  A  sensible  resolve.  But  the 
maker  of  it  was  neither  Mede  nor  Persian, 


112  A  WIDOW  AND  TWINS. 

as  the  reader,  if  he  have  patience  enough, 
may  presently  discover  for  himself. 

As  I  sat  upon  the  piazza,  in  the  heat  of 
the  day,  busy  or  half  busy  with  a  book,  a 
sound  of  humming-bird's  wings  now  and 
then  fell  on  my  ear,  and,  as  I  looked  toward 
the  honeysuckle  vine,  I  began  after  a  while 
to  remark  that  the  visitor  was  invariably  a 
female.  I  watched  her  probe  the  scarlet 
tubes  and  dart  away,  and  then  returned  to 
my  page.  She  might  have  a  nest  somewhere 
near ;  but  if  she  had  there  was  small  like- 
lihood of  my  finding  it,  and,  besides,  I  was 
just  now  not  concerned  with  such  trifles. 
On  the  24th  of  June,  however,  a  passing 
neighbor  dropped  into  the  yard.  Was  I  in- 
terested in  humming-birds  ?  he  inquired.  If 
so,  he  could  show  me  a  nest.  I  put  down 
my  book,  and  went  with  him  at  once. 

The  beautiful  structure,  a  model  of  artis- 
tic workmanship,  was  near  the  end  of  one  of 
the  lower  branches  of  an  apple-tree,  eight  or 
ten  feet  from  the  ground,  saddled  upon  the 
drooping  limb  at  a  point  where  two  offshoots 
made  a  good  holding-place,  while  an  upright 
twig  spread  over  it  a  leafy  canopy  against 
rain  and  sun.  Had  the  builders  sought  my 


A   WIDOW  AND    TWINS.  113 

advice  as  to  a  location,  I  could  hardly  have 
suggested  one  better  suited  to  my  own  con- 
venience. The  tree  was  within  a  stone's  toss 
of  my  window,  and,  better  still,  the  nest  was 
overlooked  to  excellent  advantage  from  an 
old  bank  wall  which  divided  my  premises 
from  those  of  my  next-door  neighbor.  How 
could  I  doubt  that  Providence  itself  had  set 
me  a  summer  lesson? 

At  our  first  visit  the  discoverer  of  the  nest 
—  from  that  moment  an  ornithologist  — 
brought  out  a  step-ladder,  and  we  looked  in 
upon  the  two  tiny  white  eggs,  considerately 
improving  a  temporary  absence  of  the  owner 
for  that  purpose.  It  was  a  picture  to  please 
not  only  the  eye,  but  the  imagination ;  and 
before  I  could  withdraw  my  gaze  the  mother 
bird  was  back  again,  whisking  about  my 
head  so  fearlessly  that  for  a  moment  I  stood 
still,  half  expecting  her  to  drop  into  the  nest 
within  reach  of  my  hand. 

This,  as  I  have  said,  was  on  the  24th  of 
June.  Six  days  later,  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  30th,  the  eggs  were  found  to  be  hatched, 
and  two  lifeless-looking  things  lay  in  the 
bottom  of  the  nest,  their  heads  tucked  out 
of  sight,  and  their  bodies  almost  or  quite 


114  A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

naked,  except  for  a  line  of  grayish  down 
along  the  middle  of  the  back. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  been  returning  with 
interest  the  visits  of  the  bird  to  our  honey- 
suckle, and  by  this  time  had  fairly  worn  a 
path  to  a  certain  point  in  the  wall,  where, 
comfortably  seated  in  the  shade  of  the  hum- 
mer's own  tree,  and  armed  with  opera-glass 
and  notebook,  I  spent  some  hours  daily  in 
playing  the  spy  upon  her  motherly  doings. 

For  a  widow  with  a  house  and  family 
upon  her  hands,  she  took  life  easily ;  at  fre- 
quent intervals  she  absented  herself  alto- 
gether, and  even  when  at  home  she  spent 
no  small  share  of  the  time  in  flitting  about 
among  the  branches  of  the  tree.  On  such 
occasions,  I  often  saw  her  hover  against  the 
bole  or  a  patch  of  leaves,  or  before  a  piece 
of  caterpillar  or  spider  web,  making  quick 
thrusts  with  her  bill,  evidently  after  bits  of 
something  to  eat.  On  quitting  the  nest,  she 
commonly  perched  upon  one  or  another  of  a 
certain  set  of  dead  twigs  in  different  parts 
of  the  tree,  and  at  once  shook  out  her  feath- 
ers and  spread  her  tail,  displaying  its  hand- 
some white  markings,  indicative  of  her  sex. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  a  leisurely  toilet 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  115 

operation,  in  the  course  of  which  she 
scratched  herself  with  her  feet  and  dressed 
her  feathers  with  her  bill,  all  the  while  dart- 
ing out  her  long  tongue  with  lightning-like 
rapidity,  as  if  to  moisten  her  beak,  which 
at  other  times  she  cleansed  by  rubbing  it 
down  with  her  claws  or  by  wiping  it  upon 
a  twig.  In  general  she  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  me,  though  she  sometimes  hovered 
directly  in  front  of  my  face,  as  if  trying  to 
stare  me  out  of  countenance.  One  of  the 
most  pleasing  features  of  the  show  was  her 
method  of  flying  into  the  nest.  She  ap- 
proached it,  without  exception,  from  the 
same  quarter,  and,  after  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible hovering  motion,  shut  her  wings 
and  dropped  upon  the  eggs. 

When  the  young  were  hatched  I  re- 
doubled my  attentions.  Now  I  should  see 
her  feed  them.  On  the  first  afternoon  I 
waited  a  long  time  for  this  purpose,  the 
mother  conducting  herself  in  her  customary 
manner :  now  here,  now  there,  preening  her 
plumage,  driving  away  a  meddlesome  spar- 
row, probing  the  florets  of  a  convenient 
clover-head  (an  unusual  resource,  I  think), 
or  snatching  a  morsel  from  some  leaf  or  twig. 


11G  A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

Suddenly  she  flew  at  me,  and  held  herself 
at  a  distance  of  perhaps  four  feet  from  my 
nose.  Then  she  wheeled,  and,  as  I  thought, 
darted  out  of  the  orchard.  In  a  few  seconds 
I  turned  my  head,  and  there  she  sat  in  the 
nest !  I  owned  myself  beaten.  While  I  had 
been  gazing  toward  the  meadow,  she  had 
probably  done  exactly  what  I  had  wasted 
the  better  part  of  the  afternoon  in  attempt- 
ing to  see. 

Twenty -four  hours  later  I  was  more  suc- 
cessful, though  the  same  ruse  was  again 
tried  upon  me.  The  mother  left  the  nest 
at  my  approach,  but  in  three  minutes  (by 
the  watch)  flew  in  again.  She  brooded  for 
nine  minutes.  Then,  quite  of  her  own  mo- 
tion, she  disappeared  for  six  minutes.  On 
her  return  she  spent  four  minutes  in  dress- 
ing her  feathers,  after  which  she  alighted  on 
the  edge  of  the  nest,  fed  the  little  ones,  and 
took  her  place  upon  them.  This  time  she 
brooded  for  ten  minutes.  Then  she  was 
away  for  six  minutes,  dallied  about  the  tree 
for  two  minutes  longer,  and  again  flew  into 
the  nest.  While  sitting,  she  pecked  several 
times  in  quick  succession  at  a  twig  within 
reach,  and  I  could  plainly  see  her  mandibles 


A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  117 

in  motion,  as  if  she  were  swallowing.  She 
brooded  for  thirteen  minutes,  absented  her- 
self for  three  minutes,  and  spent  six  minutes 
in  her  usual  cautionary  manoeuvres  before 
resuming  her  seat.  For  the  long  interval  of 
twenty -two  minutes  she  sat  still.  Then  she 
vanished  for  four  minutes,  and  on  her  re- 
turn gave  the  young  another  luncheon,  after 
a  fast  of  one  hour  and  six  minutes. 

The  feeding  process,  which  I  had  been  so 
desirous  to  see,  was  of  a  sort  to  make  the 
spectator  shiver.  The  mother,  standing  on 
the  edge  of  the  nest,  with  her  tail  braced 
against  its  side,  like  a  woodpecker  or  a 
creeper,  took  a  rigidly  erect  position,  and 
craned  her  neck  until  her  bill  was  in  a  per- 
pendicular line  above  the  short,  wide-open, 
upraised  beak  of  the  little  one,  who,  it  must 
be  remembered,  was  at  this  time  hardly  big- 
ger than  a  humble-bee.  Then  she  thrust 
her  bill  for  its  full  length  down  into  his 
throat,  a  frightful-looking  act,  followed  by 
a  series  of  murderous  gesticulations,  which 
fairly  made  one  observer's  blood  run  cold. 

On  the  day  after  this  (on  the  2d  of  July, 
that  is  to  say)  I  climbed  into  the  tree,  in 
the  old  bird's  absence,  and  stationed  myself 


118  A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

where  my  eyes  were  perhaps  fifteen  feet  from 
the  nest,  and  a  foot  or  two  above  its  level. 
At  the  end  of  about  twenty  minutes,  the 
mother,  who  meantime  had  made  two  visits 
to  the  tree,  flew  into  place,  and  brooded  for 
seventeen  minutes.  Then  she  disappeared 
again,  and  on  her  return,  after  numberless 
pretty  feints  and  sidelong  approaches, 
alighted  on  the  wall  of  the  nest,  and  fed 
both  little  ones.  The  operation,  though  still 
sufficiently  reckless,  looked  less  like  infanti- 
cide than  before,  —  a  fact  due,  as  I  suppose, 
to  my  more  elevated  position,  from  which 
the  nestlings'  throats  were  better  seen. 
After  this  she  brooded  for  another  seventeen 
minutes.  On  the  present  occasion,  as  well 
as  on  many  others,  it  was  noticeable  that, 
while  sitting  upon  the  young,  she  kept  up 
an  almost  incessant  motion,  as  if  seeking  to 
warm  them,  or  perhaps  to  develop  their 
muscles  by  a  kind  of  massage  treatment. 
A  measure  of  such  hitchings  and  fidgetings 
might  have  meant  nothing  more  than  an 
attempt  to  secure  for  herself  a  comfortable 
seat;  but  when  they  were  persisted  in  for 
fifteen  minutes  together,  it  was  difficult  not 
to  believe  that  she  had  some  different  end  in 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  119 

view.  Possibly,  as  human  infants  get  ex- 
ercise by  dandling  on  the  mother's  knee,  the 
baby  humming-bird  gets  his  by  this  paren- 
tal kneading  process.  Whether  brooding 
or  feeding,  it  must  be  said  that  the  hummer 
treated  her  tiny  charges  with  no  particular 
careftdness,  so  far  as  an  outsider  could 
judge. 

The  next  day  I  climbed  again  into  the 
tree.  The  mother  bird  made  off  at  once, 
and  did  not  resume  her  seat  for  almost  an 
hour,  though  she  would  undoubtedly  have 
done  so  earlier  but  for  my  presence.  Again 
and  again  she  perched  near  me,  her  bill 
leveled  straight  at  my  face.  Finally  she 
alighted  on  the  nest,  and,  after  considerable 
further  delay,  as  if  to  assure  herself  that 
everything  was  quite  safe,  fed  the  two  chicks 
from  her  throat,  as  before.  "She  thrust 
her  bill  into  their  mouths  so  far  "  (I  quote 
my  notes)  "that  the  tips  of  their  short  little 
beaks  were  up  against  the  root  of  her  man- 
dibles!" 

Only  once  more,  on  the  4th  of  July,  I 
ventured  into  the  apple-tree.  For  more  than 
an  hour  and  a  half  I  waited.  Times  without 
number  the  mother  came  buzzing  into  the 


120  A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

tree,  made  the  circuit  of  her  favorite  perches, 
dressed  her  plumage,  darted  away  again, 
and  again  returned,  till  I  was  almost  driven 
to  get  down,  for  her  relief.  At  last  she  fed 
the  nestlings,  who  by  this  time  must  have 
been  all  but  starved,  as  indeed  they  seemed 
to  be.  "The  tips  of  their  bills  do  come 
clean  up  to  the  base  of  the  mother's  mandi- 
bles." So  I  wrote  in  my  journal;  for  it  is 
the  first  duty  of  a  naturalist  to  verify  his 
own  observations. 

On  the  10th  we  again  brought  out  the 
ladder.  Though  at  least  eleven  days  old, 
the  tiny  birds  —  the  "widow's  mites,"  as 
my  facetious  neighbor  called  them  —  were 
still  far  from  filling  the  cup.  While  I  stood 
over  it,  one  of  them  uttered  some  pathetic 
little  cries  that  really  went  to  my  heart.  His 
bill,  perceptibly  longer  than  on  the  5th,  was 
sticking  just  above  the  border  of  the  nest. 
I  touehed  it  at  the  tip,  but  he  did  not  stir. 
Craning  my  neck,  I  could  see  his  open  eye. 
Poor,  helpless  things!  Yet  within  three 
months  they  would  be  flying  to  Central 
America,  or  some  more  distant  clime.  How 
little  they  knew  what  was  before  them !  As 
little  as  I  know  what  is  before  me. 


A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  121 

The  violence  of  the  feeding  act  was  now 
at  its  height,  I  think,  but  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  do  justice  to  it  by  any  descrip- 
tion. My  neighbor,  who  one  day  stood  be- 
side me  looking  on,  was  moved  to  loud  laugh- 
ter. When  the  two  beaks  were  tightly 
joined,  and  while  the  old  bird's  was  being 
gradually  withdrawn,  they  were  shaken  con- 
vulsively, —  by  the  mother's  attempts  to  dis- 
gorge, and  perhaps  by  the  young  fellow's 
efforts  to  hasten  the  operation.  It  was  plain 
that  he  let  go  with  reluctance,  as  a  boy  sucks 
the  very  tip  of  the  spoon  to  get  the  last  drop 
of  jam;  but,  as  will  be  mentioned  in  the 
course  of  the  narrative,  his  behavior  improved 
greatly  in  this  respect  as  he  grew  older. 

On  the  12th,  just  after  the  little  ones  had 
been  fed,  one  of  them  got  his  wings  for  the 
first  time  above  the  wall  of  the  nest,  and 
fluttered  them  with  much  spirit.  He  had 
spent  almost  a  fortnight  in  the  cradle,  and 
was  beginning  to  think  he  had  been  a  baby 
long  enough. 

From  the  first  I  had  kept  in  mind  the 
question  whether  the  feeding  of  the  young 
by  regurgitation,  as  described  briefly  by 
Audubon,  and  more  in  detail  by  Mr.  Wil- 


122  A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

liam  Brewster,1  would  be  continued  after 
the  nestlings  were  fully  grown.  On  the 
14th  I  wrote  in  my  journal:  "The  method 
of  feeding  remains  unchanged,  and,  as  it 
seems,  is  likely  to  remain  so  to  the  end.  It 
must  save  the  mother  much  labor  in  going 
and  coming,  and  perhaps  renders  the  cooper- 
ation of  the  male  parent  unnecessary. "  This 
prediction  was  fulfilled,  but  with  a  qualifica- 
tion to  be  hereafter  specified. 

Every  morning,  now,  I  went  to  the  apple- 
tree  uncertain  whether  the  nest  would  not 
be  found  empty.  According  to  Audubon, 
Nuttall,  Mr.  Burroughs,  and  Mrs.  Treat, 
young  humming-birds  stay  in  the  nest  only 
seven  days.  Mr.  Brewster,  in  his  notes 
already  cited,  says  that  the  birds  on  which 
his  observations  were  made  —  in  the  garden 
of  Mr.  E.  S.  Hoar,  in  Concord  —  were 
hatched  on  the  4th  of  July,2  and  forsook 
the  »est  on  the  18th.  My  birds  were  al- 

1  The  Auk,  vol.  vii.  p.  206. 

2  But  Mr.  Hoar,  from  whom   Mr.  Brewster  had  his 
dates,  informs  me   that  the   time  of  hatching  was  not 
certainly  known ;    and   from  Mr.   Brewster's   statement 
ahout  the  size  of  the  nestlings,  I  cannot  doubt  that  they 
had  been  out  of  the  shell  some  days  longer  than  Mr. 
Hoar  then  supposed. 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  123 

ready  fifteen  days  old,  at  least,  and,  unless 
they  were  to  prove  uncommonly  backward 
specimens,  ought  to  be  on  the  wing  forth- 
with. Nevertheless  they  were  in  no  haste. 
Day  after  day  passed.  The  youngsters 
looked  more  and  more  like  old  birds,  and 
the  mother  grew  constantly  more  and  more 
nervous. 

On  the  18th  I  found  her  in  a  state  of  un- 
precedented excitement,  squeaking  almost 
incessantly.  At  first  I  attributed  this  to 
concern  at  my  presence,  but  after  a  while  it 
transpired  that  a  young  oriole  —  a  blunder- 
ing, tailless  fellow  —  was  the  cause  of  the 
disturbance.  By  some  accident  he  had 
dropped  into  the  leafy  treetop,  as  guiltless  of 
any  evil  design  as  one  of  her  own  nestlings. 
How  she  did  buzz  about  him !  In  and  out 
among  the  branches  she  went,  now  on  this 
side  of  him,  now  on  that,  and  now  just  over 
his  back;  all  the  time  squeaking  fiercely, 
and  carrying  her  tail  spread  to  its  utmost. 
The  scene  lasted  for  some  minutes. 
Through  it  all  the  two  young  birds  kept 
perfectly  quiet,  never  once  putting  up  their 
heads,  even  when  the  mother,  buzzing  and 
calling,  zigzagged  directly  about  the  nest. 


124  A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

I  had  seen  many  birds  in  the  tree,  first  and 
last,  but  none  that  created  anything  like 
such  a  stir.  The  mother  was  literally  in  a 
frenzy.  She  went  the  round  of  her  perches, 
but  could  stay  nowhere.  Once  she  dashed 
out  of  the  tree  for  an  instant,  and  drove  a 
sparrow  away  from  the  tomato  patch.  Or- 
dinarily his  presence  there  would  not  have 
annoyed  her  in  the  least,  but  in  her  present 
state  of  mind  she  was  ready  to  pounce  upon 
anybody.  All  of  which  shows  once  more  how 
"  human -like ' '  birds  are.  The  bewilderment 
of  the  oriole  was  comical.  "What  on  earth 
can  this  crazy  thing  be  shooting  about  my 
ears  in  this  style  for?  "  I  imagined  him  say- 
ing to  himself.  In  fact,  as  he  glanced  my 
way,  now  and  then,  with  his  innocent  baby 
face,  I  could  almost  believe  that  he  was  ap- 
pealing to  me  with  some  such  inquiry. 

The  next  morning  ("at  7.32,"  as  my  diary 
is  careful  to  note)  one  of  the  twins  took  his 
flight.  I  was  standing  on  the  wall,  with  my 
glass  leveled  upon  the  nest,  when  I  saw  him 
exercising  his  wings.  The  action  was  little 
more  pronounced  than  had  been  noticed  at 
intervals  during  the  last  three  or  four  days, 
except  that  he  was  more  decidedly  on  his 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  125 

feet.  Suddenly,  without  making  use  of  the 
rim  of  the  nest,  as  I  should  have  expected 
him  to  do,  he  was  in  the  air,  hovering  in  the 
prettiest  fashion,  and  in  a  moment  more  had 
alighted  on  a  leafless  twig  slightly  above  the 
level  of  the  nest,  and  perhaps  a  yard  from 
it.  Within  a  minute  the  mother  appeared, 
buzzing  and  calling,  with  answering  calls 
from  the  youthful  adventurer.  At  once  — 
after  a  hasty  reconnaissance  of  the  man  on 
the  wall  —  she  perched  beside  him,  and 
plunged  her  bill  into  his  throat.  Then  she 
went  to  the  nest,  served  the  other  one  in  the 
same  way,  and  made  off.  She  had  no  time 
to  waste  at  this  juncture  of  affairs. 

When  she  had  gone,  I  stepped  up  to  the 
trunk  of  the  tree  to  watch  the  little  fellow 
more  closely.  He  held  his  perch,  and  oc- 
cupied himself  with  dressing  his  plumage, 
though,  as  the  breeze  freshened,  he  was 
compelled  once  in  a  while  to  keep  his  wings 
in  motion  to  prevent  the  wind  from  carrying 
him  away.  When  the  old  bird  returned,  — 
in  just  half  an  hour,  —  she  resented  my  in- 
trusion (what  an  oppressor  of  the  widow  and 
the  fatherless  she  must  by  this  time  have 
thought  me !)  in  the  most  unmistakable  man- 


126  A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

ner,  coming  more  than  once  quite  within 
reach.  However,  she  soon  gave  over  these 
attempts  at  intimidation,  perched  beside  the 
percher,  and  again  put  something  into  his 
maw.  This  time  she  did  not  feed  the  nest- 
ling. As  she  took  her  departure,  she  told 
the  come-outer  —  or  so  I  fancied  —  that  there 
was  a  man  under  the  tree,  a  pestilent  fellow, 
and  it  would  be  well  to  get  a  little  out  of 
his  reach.  At  all  events,  she  had  scarcely 
disappeared  before  the  youngster  was  again 
on  the  wing.  It  was  wonderful  how  much 
at  home  he  seemed,  —  poising,  backing,  soar- 
ing, and  alighting  with  all  the  ease  and 
grace  of  an  old  hand.  One  only  piece  of 
awkwardness  I  saw  him  commit :  he  dropped 
upon  a  branch  much  too  large  for  his  tiny 
feet,  and  was  manifestly  uncomfortable. 
But  he  did  not  stay  long,  and  at  his  next 
alighting  was  well  up  in  the  tree,  where  it 
was  noticeable  that  he  remained  ever  after. 
With  so  much  going  on  outside,  it  was 
hard  to  remain  indoors,  and  finally  I  took  a 
chair  to  the  orchard,  and  gave  myself  up  to 
watching  the  drama.  The  feeding  process, 
though  still  always  by  regurgitation,  was  by 
this  time  somewhat  different  from  what  it 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  127 

had  been  when  the  bills  of  the  young  were 
less  fully  developed.  In  my  notes  of  this 
date  I  find  the  following  description  of  it : 
"Number  Two  is  still  in  the  nest,  but  un- 
easy. At  10.25  the  mother  appeared  and 
fed  him.1  Her  beak  was  thrust  into  his 
mouth  at  right  angles,  —  the  change  being 
necessitated,  probably,  by  the  greater  length 
of  his  bill,  —  and  he  seemed  to  be  jerking 
strenuously  at  it.  Then  he  opened  his  beak 
and  remained  motionless,  while  the  black 
mandibles  of  the  mother  could  be  seen  run- 
ning down  out  of  sight  into  his  throat." 

The  other  youngster,  Number  One,  as  I 
now  called  him,  stayed  in  the  tree,  or  at 
most  ventured  only  into  the  next  one,  and 
was  fed  at  varying  intervals,  —  as  often, 
apparently,  as  the  busy  mother  could  find 
anything  to  give  him.  Would  he  go  back 
to  his  cradle  for  the  night?  It  seemed  not 
improbable,  notwithstanding  he  had  shown 
no  sign  of  such  an  intention  so  long  as  day- 
light lasted.  At  3.50  the  next  morning, 

1  For  convenience,  I  use  the  masculine  pronoun  in 
speaking  of  both  the  young  birds ;  but  I  knew  nothing 
as  to  the  sex  of  either  of  them,  though  I  came  finally  to 
believe  that  one  was  a  male  and  the  other  a  female. 


128  A   WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

therefore,  I  stole  out  to  see.     No :  Number 
Two  was  there  alone. 

At  seven  o'clock,  when  I  made  my  second 
visit,  the  mother  was  in  the  midst  of  another 
day's  hard  work.  Twice  within  five  minutes 
she  brought  food  to  the  nestling.  Once  the 
little  fellow  —  not  so  very  little  now  —  hap- 
pened to  be  facing  east,  while  the  old  bird 
alighted,  as  she  had  invariably  done,  on  the 
western  side.  The  youngster,  instead  of 
facing  about,  threw  back  his  head  and 
opened  his  beak.  "Look  out,  there!"  ex- 
claimed my  fellow-observer;  "you  '11  break 
his  neck  if  you  feed  him  in  that  way."  But 
she  did  not  mind.  Young  birds'  necks  are 
not  so  easily  broken.  Within  ten  minutes 
of  this  time  she  fed  Number  One,  giving 
him  three  doses.  They  were  probably  small, 
however  (and  small  wonder),  for  he  begged 
hard  for  more,  opening  his  bill  with  an  ap- 
pealing air.  The  action  in  this  case  was 
particularly  well  seen,  and  the  vehement 
jerking,  while  the  beaks  were  glued  together, 
seemed  almost  enough  to  pull  the  young  fel- 
low's head  off.  Within  another  ten  minutes 
the  mother  was  again  ministering  to  Number 
Two !  Poor  little  widow !  Between  her  in- 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  129 

cessant  labors  of  this  kind  and  her  over- 
whelming anxiety  whenever  any  strange  bird 
came  near,  I  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed 
for  her.  As  a  member  of  a  strictly  Ameri- 
can family,  she  was  in  a  fair  way,  I  thought, 
to  be  overtaken  by  the  "most  American  of 
diseases,"  —  nervous  prostration.  It  tired 
me  to  watch  her. 

With  us,  and  perhaps  with  her  likewise, 
it  was  a  question  whether  Number  Two 
would  remain  in  the  nest  for  the  day.  He 
grew  more  and  more  restless ;  as  my  com- 
panion —  a  learned  man  —  expressed  it,  he 
began  to  "ramp  round."  Once  he  actually 
mounted  the  rim  of  the  nest,  a  thing  which 
his  more  precocious  brother  had  never  been 
seen  to  do,  and  stretched  forward  to  pick  at 
a  neighboring  stem.  Late  that  afternoon 
the  mother  fed  him  five  times  within  an  hour, 
instead  of  once  an  hour,  or  thereabouts,  as 
had  been  her  habit  three  weeks  before.  She 
meant  to  have  him  in  good  condition  for  the 
coming  event ;  and  he,  on  his  part,  was  ac- 
tive to  the  same  end,  —  standing  upon  the 
wall  of  the  nest  again  and  again,  and  exer- 
cising his  wings  till  they  made  a  cloud  about 
him.  A  dread  of  launching  away  still  kept 


130  A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

him  back,  however,  and  shortly  after  seven 
o'clock  I  found  him  comfortably  disposed 
for  the  night.  "He  is  now  on  his  twenty- 
first  day  (at  least)  in  the  nest.  To-morrow 
will  see  him  go."  So  end  my  day's  notes. 

At  5.45  the  next  morning  he  was  still 
there.  At  6.20  I  absented  myself  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  on  returning  was  hailed  by  my 
neighbor  with  the  news  that  the  nest  was 
empty.  Number  Two  had  flown  between 
6.25  and  6.30,  but,  unhappily,  neither  of  us 
was  at  hand  to  give  him  a  cheer.  I  trust 
that  he  and  his  mother  were  not  hurt  in  their 
feelings  by  the  oversight.  The  whole  family 
(minus  the  father)  was  still  in  the  apple- 
tree  ;  the  mother  full,  and  more  than  full,  of 
business,  feeding  one  youngster  after  the 
other,  as  they  sat  here  and  there  in  the  up- 
per branches. 

Twenty-four  hours  later,  as  I  stood  in  the 
orchard,  I  heard  a  hum  of  wings,  and  found 
the  mother  over  my  head.  Presently  she 
flew  into  the  top  of  the  tree,  and  the  next 
instant  was  sitting  beside  one  of  the  young 
ones.  His  hungry  mouth  was  already  wide 
open,  but  before  feeding  him  she  started  up 
from  the  twig,  and  circled  about  him  so 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  131 

closely  as  almost  or  quite  to  touch  him  with 
her  wings.  On  completing  the  circle  she 
dropped  upon  the  perch  at  his  side,  but  im- 
mediately rose  again,  and  again  flew  round 
him.  It  was  a  beautiful  act,  —  beautiful 
beyond  the  power  of  any  words  of  mine  to 
set  forth ;  an  expression  of  maternal  ecstasy, 
I  could  not  doubt,  answering  to  the  rap- 
turous caresses  and  endearments  in  which 
mothers  of  human  infants  are  so  frequently 
seen  indulging.  Three  days  afterward,  to 
my  delight,  I  saw  it  repeated  in  every  par- 
ticular, as  if  to  confirm  my  opinion  of  its 
significance.  The  sight  repaid  all  my  watch- 
ings  thrice  over,  and  even  now  I  feel  my 
heart  growing  warm  at  the  recollection  of 
it.  Strange  thoughtlessness,  is  it  not,  which 
allows  mothers  capable  of  such  passionate 
devotion,  tiny,  defenseless  things,  to  be 
slaughtered  by  the  million  for  the  enhance- 
ment of  woman's  charms! 

At  this  point  we  suddenly  became  aware 
that  for  at  least  a  day  or  two  the  old  bird 
had  probably  been  feeding  her  offspring  in 
two  ways,  —  sometimes  by  regurgitation, 
and  sometimes  by  a  simple  transfer  from 
beak  to  beak.  The  manner  of  our  discovery 


132  A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

was  somewhat  laughable.  The  mother 
perched  beside  one  of  the  young  birds,  put 
her  bill  into  his,  and  then  apparently  fell 
off  the  limb  head  first.  We  thought  she 
had  not  finished,  and  looked  to  see  her  re- 
turn ;  but  she  flew  away,  and  after  a  while 
the  truth  dawned  upon  us.  Thereafter,  un- 
less our  observation  was  at  fault,  she  used 
whichever  method  happened  to  suit  her  con- 
venience. If  she  found  a  choice  collection 
of  spiders,1  for  instance,  she  brought  them 
in  her  throat  (as  cedar-birds  carry  cherries), 
to  save  trips;  if  she  had  only  one  or  two, 
she  retained  them  between  her  mandibles. 
It  will  be  understood,  1  suppose,  that  we 
did  not  see  the  food  in  its  passage  from  one 
bird  to  the  other,  —  human  eyesight  would 
hardly  be  equal  to  work  of  such  nicety ;  but 
the  two  bills  were  put  together  so  frequently 
and  in  so  pronounced  a  manner  as  to  leave 
us  in  no  practical  uncertainty  about  what 
was  going  on.  Neither  had  I  any  doubt 
that  the  change  was  connected  in  some  way 

1  Mr.  E.  H.  Eames  reports  (in  The  Auk,  vol.  vii.  p. 
287)  that,  on  dissecting  a  humming-bird,  about  two  days 
old,  he  found  sixteen  young  spiders  in  its  throat,  and  a 
pultaceous  mass  of  the  same  in  its  stomach. 


A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS.  133 

with  the  increasing  age  of  the  fledgelings ; 
yet  it  is  to  be  said  that  the  two  methods 
continued  to  be  used  interchangeably  to  the 
end,  and  on  the  28th,  when  Number  Two 
had  been  out  of  the  nest  for  seven  days,  the 
mother  thrust  her  bill  down  his  throat,  and 
repeated  the  operation,  just  as  she  had  done 
three  weeks  before. 

For  at  least  two  days  longer,  as  I  believe, 
the  faithful  creature  continued  her  loving 
ministrations,  although  I  failed  to  detect 
her  in  the  act.  Then,  on  the  1st  of  August, 
as  I  sat  on  the  piazza,  I  saw  her  for  the 
last  time.  The  honeysuckle  vine  had  served 
her  well,  and  still  bore  half  a  dozen  scat- 
tered blossoms,  as  if  for  her  especial  bene- 
fit. She  hovered  before  them,  one  by  one, 
and  in  another  instant  was  gone.  May  the 
Fates  be  kind  to  her,  and  to  her  children 
after  her,  to  the  latest  generation !  Our  in- 
tercourse had  lasted  for  eight  weeks,  — 
wanting  one  day,  —  and  it  was  fitting  that  it 
should  end  where  it  had  begun,  at  the  sign 
of  the  honeysuckle. 

The  absence  of  the  father  bird  for  all  this 
time,  though  I  have  mentioned  it  but  casu- 
ally, was  of  course  a  subject  of  continual  re- 


134  A  WIDOW  AND   TWINS. 

mark.  How  was  it  to  be  explained?  My 
own  opinion  is,  reluctant  as  I  have  been  to 
reach  it,  that  such  absence  or  desertion  — 
by  whatever  name  it  may  be  called  —  is  the 
general  habit  of  the  male  ruby -throat.  Upon 
this  point  I  shall  have  some  things  to  say 
in  a  subsequent  paper. 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

"  Your  fathers,  where  are  they  ?  "  —  ZECHABIAH  i.  5. 

WHILE  keeping  daily  watch  upon  a  nest 
of  our  common  humming-bird,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1890,  I  was  struck  with  the  persis- 
tent absence  of  the  head  of  the  family.  As 
week  after  week  elapsed,  this  feature  of  the 
case  excited  more  and  more  remark,  and  I 
turned  to  my  out-of-door  journal  for  such 
meagre  notes  as  it  contained  of  a  similar 
nest  found  five  years  before.  From  these  it 
appeared  that  at  that  time,  also,  the  father 
bird  was  missing.  Could  such  truancy  be 
habitual  with  the  male  ruby -throat?  I  had 
never  supposed  that  any  of  our  land  birds 
were  given  to  behaving  in  this  ill-mannered, 
unnatural  way,  and  the  matter  seemed  to 
call  for  investigation. 

My  first  resort  was,  of  course,  to  books. 
The  language  of  Wilson  and  Audubon  is 
somewhat  ambiguous,  but  may  fairly  be 
taken  as  implying  the  male  bird's  presence 


136  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

throughout  the  period  of  nidification.  Nut- 
tall  speaks  explicitly  to  the  same  effect, 
though  with  no  specification  of  the  grounds 
on  which  his  statement  is  based.  The  later 
systematic  biographers  —  Brewer,  Samuels, 
Minot,  and  the  authors  of  New  England 
Bird  Life  —  are  silent  in  respect  to  the 
point.  Mr.  Burroughs,  in  Wake  -  Robin, 
mentions  having  found  two  nests,  and  gives 
us  to  understand  that  he  saw  only  the  fe- 
male birds.  Mrs.  Treat,  on  the  other  hand, 
makes  the  father  a  conspicuous  figure  about 
the  single  nest  concerning  which  she  reports. 
Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  too,  speaks  of 
watching  both  parents  as  they  fed  the  young 
ones:  "The  mother  always  alighted,  while 
the  father  as  uniformly  remained  upon  the 
wing." 

So  far,  then,  the  evidence  was  decidedly, 
not  to  say  decisively,  in  the  masculine  ruby- 
throat's  favor.  But  while  I  had  no  desire 
to  make  out  a  case  against  him,  and  in 
fact  was  beginning  to  feel  half  ashamed  of 
my  uncomplimentary  surmises,  I  was  still 
greatly  impressed  with  what  my  own  eyes 
had  seen,  or  rather  had  not  seen,  and  thought 
it  worth  while  to  push  the  inquiry  a  little 
further. 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  137 

I  wrote  first  to  Mr.  E.  S.  Hoar,  in  whose 
garden  Mr.  Brewster  had  made  the  observa- 
tions cited  in  my  previous  article.  He  re- 
plied with  great  kindness,  and  upon  the  point 
in  question  said :  "  I  watched  the  nest  two  or 
three  times  a  day,  from  a  time  before  the 
young  were  hatched  till  they  departed ;  and 
now  you  mention  it>  it  occurs  to  me  that  I 
never  did  see  the  male,  but  only  the  white- 
breasted  female." 

Next  I  sought  the  testimony  of  profes- 
sional ornithologists;  and  here  my  <worst 
suspicions  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be  con- 
firmed, although  the  greater  number  of  my 
correspondents  were  unhappily  compelled  to 
plead  a  want  of  knowledge.  Dr.  A.  K. 
Fisher  had  found,  as  he  believed,  not  less 
than  twenty-five  nests,  and  to  the  best  of 
his  recollection  had  never  seen  a  male  bird 
near  one  of  them  after  it  was  completed. 
He  had  watched  the  female  feeding  her 
young,  and,  when  the  nests  contained  eggs, 
had  waited  for  hours  on  purpose  to  secure 
the  male,  but  always  without  result. 

Mr.  William  Brewster  wrote:  "I  have 
found,  or  seen  in  situ,  twelve  hummers' 
nests,  all  in  Massachusetts.  Of  these  I  took 


138  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

nine,  after  watching  each  a  short  time,  prob- 
ably not  more  than  an  hour  or  two  in  any 
case.  Of  the  remaining  three,  I  visited  one 
three  or  four  times  at  various  hours  of  the 
day,  another  only  twice,  the  third  but  once. 
Two  of  the  three  contained  young  when 
found.  The  third  was  supposed  to  have 
young,  also,  but  could  not  be  examined  with- 
out danger  to  its  contents.  I  have  never 
seen  a  male  hummer  anywhere  near  a  nest, 
either  before  or  after  the  eggs  were  laid, 
but,  us  you  will  gather  from  the  above  brief 
data,  my  experience  has  not  been  extensive ; 
and  in  the  old  days,  when  most  of  my  nests 
were  found,  the  methods  of  close  watch- 
ing now  in  vogue  were  unthought  of.  In 
the  light  of  the  testimony  to  which  you  re- 
fer, I  should  conclude,  with  you,  that  the 
male  hummer  must  occasionally  assist  in 
the  care  of  the  young,  but  I  am  very  sure 
that  this  is  not  usually,  if  indeed  often,  the 
case." 

Mr.  H.  W.  Henshaw  reported  a  similar 
experience.  He  had  found  four  nests  of  the 
ruby-throat,  but  had  seen  no  male  about  any 
of  them  after  nidification  was  begun.  "I 
confess,"  he  says,  "that  I  had  never  thought 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  139 

of  his  absence  as  being  other  than  accidental, 
and  hence  have  never  made  any  observations 
directly  upon  the  point;  so  that  my  testi- 
mony is  of  comparatively  little  value.  In 
at  least  one  instance,  when  the  female  was 
building  her  nest,  I  remember  to  have  seen 
the  male  fly  with  her  and  perch  near  by, 
while  she  was  shaping  the  nest,  and  then  fly 
off  with  her  after  more  material.  I  don't 
like  to  believe  that  the  little  villain  leaves 
the  entire  task  of  nidification  to  his  better 
half  (we  may  well  call  her  better,  if  he  does) ; 
but  my  memory  is  a  blank  so  far  as  testi- 
mony affirmative  of  his  devotion  is  con- 
cerned." Mr.  Henshaw  recalls  an  experi- 
ence with  a  nest  of  the  Rivoli  humming- 
bird (Eugenes  fulgens),  in  Arizona,  —  a 
nest  which  he  spent  two  hours  in  getting. 
"I  was  particularly  anxious  to  secure  the 
male,  but  did  not  obtain  a  glimpse  of  him, 
and  I  remember  thinking  that  it  was  very 
strange."  He  adds  that  Mr.  C.  W.  Rich- 
mond has  told  him  of  finding  a  nest  and  tak- 
ing the  eggs  without  seeing  the  father  bird, 
and  sums  up  his  own  view  of  the  matter 
thus :  — 

"Had  any  one  asked  me  offhand,  'Does 


140  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

the  male  hummer  help  the  female  feed  the 
young  ? '  I  am  quite  sure  I  should  have  an- 
swered, 'Of  course  he  does.'  As  the  case 
now  stands,  however,  I  am  inclined  to  be- 
lieve him  a  depraved  wretch." 

Up  to  this  point  the  testimony  of  my  cor- 
respondents had  been  unanimous,  but  the 
unanimity  was  broken  by  Dr.  C.  Hart  Mer- 
riam,  who  remembers  that  on  one  occasion 
his  attention  was  called  to  a  nest  (it  proved 
to  contain  a  set  of  fresh  eggs)  by  the  flying 
of  both  its  owners  about  his  head ;  and  by 
Mr.  W.  A.  Jeffries,  who  in  one  case  saw 
the  father  bird  in  the  vicinity  of  a  nest  oc- 
cupied by  young  ones,  although  he  did  not 
see  him  feed  or  visit  them.  This  nest,  Mr. 
Jeffries  says,  was  one  of  five  which  he  has 
found.  In  the  four  other  instances  no  male 
birds  were  observed,  notwithstanding  three 
of  the  nests  were  taken,  —  a  tragedy  which 
might  be  expected  to  bring  the  father  of  the 
family  upon  the  scene,  if  he  were  anywhere 
within  call. 

In  view  of  the  foregoing  evidence,  it  ap- 
pears to  me  reasonably  certain  that  the  male 
ruby -throat,  as  a  rule,  takes  no  considerable 
part  in  the  care  of  eggs  and  young.  The 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  141 

testimony  covers  not  less  than  fifty  nests. 
Some  of  them  were  watched  assiduously, 
nearly  all  were  examined,  and  the  greater 
part  were  actually  taken ;  yet  of  the  fifty  or 
more  male  proprietors,  only  two  were  seen ; 
and  concerning  these  exceptions,  it  is  to  be 
noticed  that  in  one  case  the  eggs  were  just 
laid,  and  in  the  other,  while  the  hungry 
nestlings  must  have  kept  the  mother  bird 
extremely  busy,  her  mate  was  not  observed 
to  do  anything  in  the  way  of  lightening  her 
labors. 

As  against  this  preponderance  of  negative 
testimony,  and  in  corroboration  of  Mr. 
Lowell's  and  Mrs.  Treat's  circumstantial 
narratives,  there  remain  to  be  mentioned  the 
fact  communicated  to  me  by  Mr.  Hoar,  that 
a  townsman  of  his  had  at  different  times  had 
two  hummers'  nests  in  his  grounds,  the  male 
owners  of  which  were  constant  in  their  at- 
tentions, and  the  following  very  interesting 
and  surprising  story  received  from  Mr.  C. 
C.  Darwin,  of  Washington,  through  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Henshaw.  Some  years 
ago,  as  it  appears,  a  pair  of  ruby-throats 
built  a  nest  within  a  few  feet  of  Mr. 
Darwin's  window  and  a  little  below  it,  so 


142  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

that  they  could  be  watched  without  fear  of 
disturbing  them.  He  remembers  perfectly 
that  the  male  fed  the  female  during  the  en- 
tire period  of  incubation,  "pumping  the 
food  down  her  throat."  All  this  time,  so 
far  as  could  be  discovered,  the  mother  did 
not  once  leave  the  nest  (in  wonderful  con- 
trast with  my  bird  of  a  year  ago),  and  of 
course  the  father  was  never  seen  to  take  her 
place.  Mr.  Darwin  cannot  say  that  the 
male  ever  fed  the  young  ones,  but  is  positive 
that  he  was  frequently  about  the  nest  after 
they  were  hatched.  While  they  were  still 
too  young  to  fly,  a  gardener,  in  pruning  the 
tree,  sawed  off  the  limb  on  which  the  nest 
was  built.  Mr.  Darwin's  mother  rescued 
the  little  ones  and  fed  them  with  sweetened 
water,  and  on  her  son's  return  at  night  the 
branch  was  fixed  in  place  again,  as  best  it 
could  be,  by  means  of  wires.  Meanwhile 
the  old  birds  had  disappeared,  having  given 
up  their  children  for  lost;  and  it  was  not 
until  the  third  day  that  they  came  back,  — 
by  chance,  perhaps,  or  out  of  affection  for 
the  spot.  At  once  they  resumed  the  care 
of  their  offspring,  who  by  this  time,  it  is 
safe  to  say,  had  become  more  or  less  surfeited 


THE   MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  143 

with  sugar  and  water,  and  gladly  returned 
to  a  diet  of  spiders  and  other  such  spicy  and 
hearty  comestibles. 

Mr.  Henshaw,  with  an  evident  satisfac- 
tion which  does  him  honor,  remarks  upon 
the  foregoing  story  as  proving  that,  what- 
ever may  be  true  of  male  hummers  in  gen- 
eral, there  are  at  least  some  faithful  Bene- 
dicts among  them.  For  myself,  indeed,  as 
I  have  already  said,  I  hold  no  brief  against 
the  ruby-throat,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
seemingly  unfavorable  result  of  my  investi- 
gation into  his  habits  as  a  husband  and  fa- 
ther, it  is  by  no  means  clear  to  me  that  we 
must  call  him  hard  names.  Before  doing 
that,  we  ought  to  know  not  only  that  he 
stays  away  from  his  wife  and  children,  but 
why  he  stays  away ;  whether  he  is  really  a 
shirk,  or  absents  himself  unselfishly  and  for 
their  better  protection,  at  the  risk  of  being 
misunderstood  and  traduced.  My  object  in 
this  paper  is  to  raise  that  question  about 
him,  rather  than  to  blacken  his  character; 
in  a  word,  to  call  attention  to  him,  not  as  a 
reprobate,  but  as  a  mystery.  To  that  end 
I  return  to  the  story  of  my  own  observa- 
tions. 


144  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

Iii  last  month's  article1  I  set  forth  some- 
what in  detail  (if  the  adverb  seem  inappro- 
priate, as  I  fear  it  will,  I  can  only  commend 
it  to  the  reader's  mercy)  the  closeness  of  our 
watch  upon  the  nest  there  described.  For 
more  than  a  month  it  was  under  the  eye  of 
one  or  other  of  two  men  almost  from  morn- 
ing till  night.  We  did  not  once  detect  the 
presence  of  the  father,  and  yet  I  shall  never 
feel  absolutely  sure  that  he  did  not  one  day 
pay  us  a  visit.  I  mention  the  circumstance 
for  what  it  may  be  worth,  and  because,  what- 
ever its  import,  it  was  at  least  a  lively  spec- 
tacle. It  occurred  upon  this  wise :  On  the 
19th  of  July,  the  day  when  the  first  of  the 
young  birds  bade  good-by  to  its  cradle,  I 
had  gone  into  the  house,  leaving  my  fellow- 
observer  in  the  orchard,  with  a  charge  to 
call  me  if  anything  noteworthy  should  hap- 
pen. I  was  hardly  seated  before  he  whistled 
loudly,  and  I  hastened  out  again.  Another 
hummer  had  been  there,  he  said,  and  the 
mother  had  been  chasing  him  (or  her)  about 
in  a  frantic  manner ;  and  even  while  we  were 

1  These  two  humming-bird  papers  were  printed  in 
consecutive  numbers  of  TJie  Atlantic  Monthly,  June  and 
July,  1891. 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  145 

talking,  the  scene  was  reenacted.  The 
stranger  had  returned,  and  the  two  birds 
were  shooting  hither  and  thither  through  the 
trees,  the  widow  squeaking  and  spreading 
her  tail  at  a  prodigious  rate.  The  new-comer 
did  not  alight  (it  could  n't),  and  there  was 
no  determining  its  sex.  It  may  have  been 
the  recreant  husband  and  father,  unable 
longer  to  deny  himself  a  look  at  his  bairns, 
—  who  knows?  Or  it  may  have  been  some 
bachelor  or  widower  who  had  come  a-woo- 
ing.  One  thing  is  certain,  —  husband, 
lover,  or  inquisitive  stranger,  he  had  no 
encouragement  to  come  again. 

As  if  to  heighten  the  dramatic  interest  of 
our  studies  (I  come  now  to  the  promised 
mystery),  we  had  already  had  the  singular 
good  fortune  to  find  a  male  humming-bird 
who  seemed  to  be  stationed  permanently  in 
a  tall  ash-tree,  standing  by  itself  in  a  recent 
clearing,  at  a  distance  of  a  mile  or  more 
from  our  widow's  orchard.  Day  after  day, 
for  at  least  a  fortnight  (from  the  2d  to  the 
15th  of  July),  he  remained  there.  One  or 
both  of  us  went  almost  daily  to  call  upon 
him,  and,  as  far  as  we  could  make  out,  he 
seldom  absented  himself  from  his  post  for 


146  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

five  minutes  together!  What  was  he  doing? 
At  first,  in  spite  of  his  sex,  it  was  hard  not 
to  believe  that  his  nest  was  in  the  tree ;  and 
to  satisfy  himself,  my  companion  "shinned  " 
it,  schoolboy  fashion,  —  a  frightful  piece  of 
work,  which  put  me  out  of  breath  even  to 
look  at  it,  —  while  I  surveyed  the  branches 
from  all  sides  through  an  opera-glass.  All 
was  without  avail.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen, 
and  it  was  as  good  as  certain,  the  branches 
being  well  separated  and  easily  overlooked, 
that  there  was  nothing  there. 

Four  days  later  I  set  out  alone,  to  try 
my  luck  with  the  riddle.  As  I  entered  the 
clearing,  the  hummer  was  seen  at  his  post, 
and  my  suspicions  fastened  upon  a  small 
wild  apple-tree,  perhaps  twenty  rods  distant. 
I  went  to  examine  it,  and  presently  the  bird 
followed  me.  He  perched  in  its  top,  but 
seemed  not  to  be  jealous  of  my  proximity, 
and  soon  returned  to  his  customary  position ; 
but  when  I  came  back  to  the  apple-tree, 
after  a  visit  to  a  clump  of  oaks  at  the  top 
of  the  hill,  he  again  came  over.  I  could 
find  no  sign  of  a  nest,  however,  nor  did  the 
female  show  herself,  as  she  pretty  confidently 
might  have  been  expected  to  do  had  her  nest 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  147 

been  near  by.  After  this  I  went  to  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  where  I  could  keep  an  eye 
upon  both  trees  without  being  myself  con- 
spicuous. The  sentinel  spent  most  of  his 
time  in  the  ash,  visiting  the  apple-tree  but 
once,  and  then  for  a  few  minutes  only.  I 
stayed  an  hour  and  a  half,  and  came  away 
no  wiser  than  before.  The  nest,  if  nest 
there  was,  must  be  elsewhere,  I  believed. 
But  where?  And  what  was  the  object  of 
the  male's  watch? 

My  curiosity  was  fully  roused.  I  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  such  conduct  on  the 
part  of  any  bird,  and  the  next  forenoon  I 
spent  another  hour  and  a  half  in  the  clear- 
ing. The  hummer  was  at  his  post,  as  he 
always  was.  We  had  never  to  wait  for  him. 
Soon  after  my  arrival  he  flew  to  the  apple- 
tree,  the  action  seeming  to  have  no  con- 
nection with  my  presence.  Presently  he 
went  back  to  the  ash,  and  drove  out  of  it 
two  intruding  birds.  A  moment  later  two 
iiumming-birds  were  there,  and  in  another 
moment  they  flew  away  in  a  direction  op- 
posite to  the  apple-tree.  Here,  then,  was 
a  real  clue.  The  birds  were  probably  our 
sentinel  and  his  mate.  I  made  after  them 


148  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

with  all  speed,  pausing  under  such  scattered 
trees  as  had  been  left  standing  in  that  quar- 
ter. Nothing  was  to  be  found,  and  on  my 
return  there  sat  the  male,  provokingly,  at 
the  top  of  the  apple-tree,  whence  he  soon 
returned  to  the  ash.  A  warbler  entered  the 
tree,  and  after  a  while  ventured  upon  the 
branch  where  the  hummer  was  sitting.  In- 
stead of  driving  her  away  he  took  wing 
himself,  and  paid  another  visit  to  the  apple- 
tree,  —  a  visit  of  perhaps  five  minutes,  —  at 
the  end  of  which  he  went  back  to  the  ash. 
Then  two  kingbirds  happened  to  alight  in 
the  apple-tree.  At  once  the  hummer  came 
dashing  over  and  ordered  them  off,  and  in 
his  excitement  dropped  for  a  moment  into 
the  leafy  top  of  a  birch  sapling,  —  a  most 
unnatural  proceeding,  —  after  which  he  re- 
sumed his  station  in  the  ash.  What  could 
I  make  of  all  this?  Apparently  he  claimed 
the  ownership  of  both  trees,  and  yet  his  nest 
was  in  neither !  He  sat  motionless  for  five 
minutes  at  a  time  upon  certain  dead  twigs 
of  the  ash,  precisely  as  our  female  was  ac- 
customed to  sit  in  her  apple-tree.  For  at 
least  seven  days  he  had  been  thus  occupied. 
Where  was  his  mate?  On  the  edge  of  the 


THE  MALE   RUBY-THROAT.  149 

wood,  perhaps.  But,  if  so,  why  did  I  hear 
nothing  from  her,  as  I  passed  up  and  down  ? 
Again  my  hour  and  a  half  had  been  spent  to 
no  purpose. 

Not  yet  discouraged,  I  returned  the  next 
morning.  For  the  three  quarters  of  an  hour 
that  I  remained,  the  hummer  was  not  once 
out  of  the  ash-tree  for  five  minutes.  I  am 
not  sure  that  he  left  it  for  five  minutes  alto- 
gether. As  usual,  he  perched  almost  with- 
out exception  on  one  or  other  of  two  dead 
limbs,  while  a  similar  branch,  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  trunk,  he  was  never  seen  to 
touch.  A  Maryland  yellow-throat  alighted 
on  one  of  his  two  branches  and  began  to 
sing,  but  had  repeated  his  strain  only  three 
or  four  times  before  the  hummer,  who  had 
been  absent  for  the  moment,  darted  upon 
him  and  put  him  to  flight.  A  little  after- 
ward, a  red-eyed  vireo  alighted  on  his  other 
favorite  perch,  and  he  showed  no  resent- 
ment. The  day  before,  a  warbler  had  sat  on 
the  same  branch  which  the  yellow-throat  now 
invaded,  and  the  hummer  not  only  did  not 
offer  to  molest  him,  but  flew  away  himself. 
These  inconsistencies  made  it  hard  to  draw 
any  inference  from  his  behavior.  During 


150  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

my  whole  stay  he  did  not  once  go  to  the  ap- 
ple-tree, although,  for  want  of  anything  bet- 
ter to  do,  I  again  scrutinized  its  branches. 
This  time  I  was  discouraged,  and  gave 
over  the  search.  His  secret,  whatever  it 
might  be,  was  "too  dear  for  my  possessing." 
But  my  fellow-observer  kept  up  his  visits, 
as  I  have  said,  and  the  hummer  remained 
faithful  to  his  task  as  late  as  July  15th, 
at  least. 

Some  readers  may  be  prompted  to  ask,  as 
one  of  my  correspondents  asked  at  the  time, 
whether  the  mysterious  sentry  may  not  have 
been  the  mate  of  our  home  bird.  I  see  no 
ground  for  such  a  suspicion.  The  two 
places  were  at  least  a  mile  apart,  as  I  have 
already  mentioned,  and  woods  and  hills,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  village,  lay  between.  If 
he  was  our  bird's  mate,  his  choice  of  a  picket 
station  was  indeed  an  enigma.  He  might 
almost  as  well  have  been  on  Mount  Wash- 
ington. Nor  can  I  believe  that  he  had  any 
connection  with  a  nest  found  two  months 
afterward  in  a  pitch-pine  grove  within  a 
quarter  of  a  mile,  more  or  less,  of  his  clear- 
ing. It  was  undoubtedly  a  nest  of  that  sea- 
son, and  might  have  been  his  for  aught  I 


THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT.  151 

know,  so  far  as  the  mere  fact  of  distance  was 
concerned;  but  here  again  an  intervening 
wood  must  have  cut  off  all  visual  com- 
munication. If  his  mate  and  nest  were 
not  within  view  from  his  ash  -  tree  perch, 
what  could  be  the  meaning  of  his  conduct? 
Without  some  specific  constraining  motive, 
no  bird  in  his  normal  condition  was  likely 
to  stay  in  one  tree  hour  after  hour,  day  after 
day,  and  week  after  week,  so  that  one  could 
never  come  in  sight  of  it  without  seeing  him. 
But  even  if  his  nest  was  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood,  the  closeness  and  persistency 
of  his  lookout  are  still,  to  my  mind,  an  ab- 
solute mystery.  Our  female  bird,  whether 
she  had  eggs  or  offspring,  made  nothing  of 
absenting  herself  by  the  half  hour;  but  this 
male  hardly  gave  himself  time  to  eat  his 
necessary  food;  indeed,  I  often  wondered 
how  he  kept  himself  alive.  Is  such  a  course 
of  action  habitual  with  male  hummers?  If 
so,  had  our  seemingly  widowed  or  deserted 
mother  a  husband,  who  somewhere,  unseen 
by  us,  was  standing  sentry  after  the  same 
heroic,  self-denying  fashion  ?  These  and  all 
similar  questions  I  must  leave  to  more  for- 
tunate observers,  or  postpone  to  a  future 


152  THE  MALE  RUBY-THROAT. 

summer.  Meantime,  my  judgment  as  to  the 
male  ruby -throat's  character  remains  in  sus- 
pense. It  is  not  plain  to  me  whether  we 
are  to  call  him  the  worst  or  the  best  of  hus- 
bands. 


EOBIN  BOOSTS. 

' '  From  every  side  they  hurried  in, 
Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes." 

KEATS. 

OF  all  the  nearly  eight  hundred  species  of 
North  American  birds,  the  robin  is  without 
question  the  one  most  generally  known.  Its 
great  commonness  and  wide  distribution  have 
something  to  do  with  this  fact,  but  can 
hardly  be  said  to  account  for  it  altogether. 
The  red-eyed  vireo  has  almost  as  extensive 
a  range,  and  at  least  in  New  England  is 
possibly  more  numerous;  but  except  among 
ornithologists  it  remains  a  stranger,  even  to 
country-bred  people.  The  robin  owes  its 
universal  recognition  partly  to  its  size  and 
perfectly  distinctive  dress,  partly  to  its  early 
arrival  in  the  spring,  but  especially  to  the 
nature  of  its  nesting  and  feeding  habits, 
which  bring  it  constantly  under  every  one's 
eye. 

It  would  seem  impossible,  at  this  late  day, 


154  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

to  say  anything  new  about  so  familiar  a  bird ; 
but  the  robin  has  one  interesting  and  re- 
markable habit,  to  which  there  is  no  allusion 
in  any  of  our  systematic  ornithological  trea- 
tises, so  far  as  I  am  aware,  although  many 
individual  observers  must  have  taken  notice 
of  it.  I  mean  the  habit  of  roosting  at  night 
in  large  flocks,  while  still  on  its  breeding 
grounds,  and  long  before  the  close  of  the 
breeding  season.1 

Toward  the  end  of  summer,  two  years  ago, 
I  saw  what  looked  like  a  daily  passage  back 
and  forth  of  small  companies  of  robins.  A 
friend,  living  in  another  town,  had  noticed 
similar  occurrences,  and  more  than  once  we 
discussed  the  subject;  agreeing  that  such 
movements  were  probably  not  connected  in 
any  way  with  the  grand  southward  migration, 

1  Mr.  William  Brewster  has  been  aware  of  this  habit 
for  twenty-five  years,  but,  like  myself,  has  never  seen  it 
mentioned  in  print.  He  devotes  to  it  a  paper  in  The  Auk 
for  October,  1890,  to  which  I  am  happy  to  refer  readers 
who  may  wish  a  more  thorough  discussion  of  the  mat- 
ter than  I  have  been  able  to  give.  My  own  paper  was 
printed  at  the  same  time,  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  and 
had  been  accepted  by  the  editor  before  I  knew  of  Mr. 
Brewster's  intention  to  write.  References  to  a  roost  in 
Belmont,  Mass.,  discovered  by  Mr.  Brewster  six  years  be- 
fore, are  frequent  in  the  following  pages. 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  155 

which,  so  far  as  we  could  judge,  had  not  yet 
commenced,  but  that  the  birds  must  be  fly- 
ing to  and  from  some  nightly  resort.  The 
flocks  were  small,  however,  and  neither  of 
us  suspected  the  full  significance  of  what  we 
had  seen. 

On  the  19th  of  July,  1889,  the  same 
friend  informed  me  that  one  of  our  Cam- 
bridge ornithologists  had  found  a  robin  roost 
in  that  city,  —  a  wood  in  which  great  num- 
bers of  birds  congregated  every  night.  This 
led  me  to  keep  a  sharper  eye  upon  my  own 
robins,  whom  I  had  already  noticed  repeat- 
ing their  previous  year's  manoeuvres.  Every 
evening,  shortly  before  and  after  sunset, 
they  were  to  be  seen  flying,  now  singly,  now 
by  twos  and  threes,  or  even  by  the  half 
dozen,  evidently  on  their  way  to  some  ren- 
dezvous. I  was  suspicious  of  a  rather  dis- 
tant hill  -  top  covered  with  pine  -  trees ;  but 
before  I  could  make  it  convenient  to  visit  the 
place  at  the  proper  hour,  I  discovered,  quite 
unexpectedly,  that  the  roost  was  close  by  the 
very  road  up  and  down  which  I  had  been 
walking ;  an  isolated  piece  of  swampy  wood, 
a  few  acres  in  extent,  mostly  a  dense  growth 
of  gray  birches  and  swamp  white  oaks,  but 


156  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

with  a  sprinkling  of  maples  and  other  decid- 
uous trees.  It  is  bounded  on  the  further 
side  by  a  wet  meadow,  and  at  the  eastern 
end  by  a  little  ice-pond,  with  a  dwelling- 
house  and  other  buildings  beside  it,  all  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  wood. 

This  discovery  was  made  on  the  evening 
of  July  25th,  and  I  at  once  crossed  a  narrow 
field  between  the  wood  and  the  highway,  and 
pushed  in  after  the  birds.  It  was  too  dark 
for  me  to  see  what  was  going  on,  but  as  I 
brushed  against  the  close  branches  the  rob- 
ins set  up  a  lively  cackling,  and  presently 
commenced  flying  from  tree  to  tree  before 
me  as  I  advanced,  though  plainly  with  no 
intention  of  deserting  their  quarters.  The 
place  was  full  of  them,  but  I  could  form  no 
estimate  of  their  number. 

On  the  following  evening  I  took  my  stand 
upon  a  little  knoll  commanding  the  western 
end  of  the  wood.  According  to  my  notes, 
the  birds  began  to  arrive  about  sunset,  — 
but  this  was  pretty  certainly  an  error,  —  and 
though  I  did  not  undertake  an  exact  count 
until  the  flight  was  mainly  over,  it  seemed 
likely  that  at  least  three  hundred  passed  in 
at  that  point.  This  would  have  made  the 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  157 

total  number  twelve  hundred,  or  thereabout, 
on  the  assumption  that  my  outlook  had  cov- 
ered a  quarter  of  the  circuit.  After  the 
flight  ceased  I  went  into  the  wood,  and  from 
the  commotion  overhead  it  was  impossible  not 
to  believe  that  such  a  calculation  must  be 
well  within  the  truth. 

The  next  day  was  rainy,  but  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  28th  I  stood  by  the  shore  of  the 
pond,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  wood,  and 
made  as  accurate  a  count  as  possible  of  the 
arrivals  at  that  point.  Unfortunately  I  was 
too  late;  the  robins  were  already  coming. 
But  in  fifty  minutes,  between  6.40  and  7.30, 
I  counted  1072  birds.  They  appeared  singly 
and  in  small  flocks,  and  it  was  out  of  the 
question  for  me  to  make  sure  of  them  all ; 
while  I  was  busy  with  a  flock  on  the  right, 
there  was  no  telling  how  many  might  be 
passing  in  on  the  left.  If  my  observations 
comprehended  a  quarter  of  the  circle,  and 
if  the  influx  was  equally  great  on  the  other 
sides  (an  assumption  afterward  disproved), 
then  it  was  safe  to  set  the  whole  number 
of  birds  at  five  thousand  or  more.  Of  the 
1072  actually  seen,  797  came  before  the  sun- 
set gun  was  fired,  —  a  proportion  somewhat 


158  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

larger  than  it  would  have  been  had  the  sky 
been  clear. 

On   the  afternoon  of   the  29th   I   again 
counted  the  arrivals  at  the  eastern  end;  but 
though  I  set  out,  as  I  thought,  in  good  sea- 
son, I  found  myself  once  more  behind  time. 
At  6.30   robins  were  already  dropping  in, 
notwithstanding  the  sky  was  cloudless.     In 
the    first   five   minutes   eighteen    birds  ap- 
peared;   at  sunset  818  had  been  counted; 
and  at  7.30,  when  I  came  away,  the  figures 
stood    at    1267.     "The   robins  came  more 
rapidly  than  last  night,"  I  wrote  in  my  note- 
book,   "and  for  much  of  the  time  I  could 
keep  watch  of  the  southeastern  corner  only. 
My  vision  then  covered  much  less  than  a 
quarter  of  the  circuit;  so  that  if  the  birds 
came  as  freely  from  other  directions,  at  least 
five  thousand  must  have  entered  the  wood 
between  6.30  and  7.30.     As  long  as  it  was 
light  they  avoided  passing  directly  by  me, 
going  generally  to  the  left,  and  slipping  into 
the  roost  behind  some  low  outlying  trees; 
though,  fortunately,  in  doing  this  they  were 
compelled  to  cross  a  narrow  patch  of  the 
illuminated  western  sky.     I  suspect  that  the 
number  increases  from  night  to  night.     Be- 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  159 

tween  6.40  and  7.30,  1235  birds  came,  as 
compared  with  1072  last  evening. " 

Two  days  afterward  (July  31st)  I  went  to 
the  western  end  of  the  wood,  and  found  the 
influx  there  much  smaller  than  on  the  oppo- 
site side;  but  I  arrived  late,  and  made  a 
partial  count  only.  After  sunset  186  birds 
were  seen,  whereas  there  had  been  455  en- 
tries at  the  eastern  end,  two  nights  before, 
during  the  same  time. 

Thus  far  I  had  always  been  too  late  to 
witness  the  beginning  of  the  flight.  On  the 
evening  of  August  1st  I  resolved  to  be  in 
season.  I  reached  the  border  of  the  pond 
at  5.15,  and  at  that  very  moment  a  single 
robin  flew  into  the  wood.  No  others  were 
seen  for  eighteen  minutes,  when  three  ar- 
rived together.  From  this  time  stragglers 
continued  to  appear,  and  at  6.30  I  had 
counted  176.  In  the  next  ten  minutes  180 
arrived ;  in  the  next  five  minutes,  138.  Be- 
tween 6.45  and  7,  I  counted  549;  then,  in 
six  minutes,  217  appeared.  At  7.25,  when 
I  concluded,  the  figures  stood  at  1533  birds. 
For  about  twenty  minutes,  as  will  be  no- 
ticed, the  arrivals  were  at  the  rate  of  thirty- 
six  a  minute.  Throughout  the  thickest  of 


160  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

the  flight  I  could  keep  a  lookout  upon  only 
one  side  of  me,  and,  moreover,  the  gather- 
ing darkness  was  by  that  time  making  it 
more  and  more  difficult  to  see  any  birds  ex- 
cept such  as  passed  above  the  dark  tree  line ; 
and  from  what  went  on  just  about  me,  it  was 
evident  that  the  number  of  arrivals  was  in- 
creasing rather  than  diminishing  as  my  count 
fell  off.  There  seemed  to  be  no  good  reason 
for  doubting  that  at  least  two  thousand  rob- 
ins entered  the  wood  at  the  eastern  end. 

Two  nights  later  I  stationed  myself  in 
the  meadow  southwest  of  the  roost.  Here 
I  counted  but  935  entries.  The  movement 
appeared  to  be  fully  as  steady  as  on  the  op- 
posite side,  but  as  darkness  came  on  I  found 
myself  at  a  great  disadvantage ;  a  hill  occu- 
pied the  background,  giving  me  no  illumi- 
nated sky  to  bring  the  birds  into  relief,  so 
that  I  could  see  only  such  as  passed  close  at 
hand.  Of  the  935  birds,  761  came  before 
seven  o'clock,  but  it  was  reasonably  certain 
that  the  flight  afterward  was  nearly  or  quite 
as  great,  only  that  I  wanted  light  wherewith 
to  see  it. 

On  the  evening  of  August  4th  I  went  back 
to  the  eastern  end,  and  as  the  sky  was  per- 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  161 

f  ectly  clear  I  hoped  to  make  a  gain  upon  all 
my  previous  figures.  But  the  fair  weather 
was  perhaps  a  hindrance  rather  than  a  help ; 
for  the  robins  came  later  than  before,  and 
more  in  a  body,  and  continued  to  arrive  long 
after  it  was  impossible  to  see  them.  I 
counted  1480,  —  53  less  than  on  the  1st. 

I  attempted  no  further  enumeration  until 
the  18th.  Then,  in  an  hour  and  ten  min- 
utes, 1203  birds  were  seen  to  enter  the  roost 
at  the  eastern  end.  But  they  arrived  more 
than  ever  in  flocks,  and  so  late  that  for  much 
of  the  time  I  missed  all  except  the  compar- 
atively small  number  that  passed  in  my  im- 
mediate vicinity.  Many  were  flying  at  a 
great  height,  —  having  come  from  a  long 
distance,  as  I  inferred,  —  and  sometimes  I 
knew  nothing  of  their  approach  till  they 
dropped  out  of  the  sky  directly  over  the 
wood.  On  this  occasion,  as  well  as  on  many 
others,  —  but  chiefly  during  the  latter  part 
of  the  season,  —  it  was  noticeable  that  some 
of  the  robins  appeared  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
precise  whereabouts  of  the  roost;  they  flew 
past  it  at  first,  and  then,  after  more  or  less 
circling  about,  with  loud  cackling,  dived 
hurriedly  into  the  wood.  I  took  special  note 


162  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

of  one  fellow,  who  came  from  the  south  at 
a  great  altitude,  and  went  directly  over  the 
wood.  When  he  was  well  past  it  he  sud- 
denly pulled  himself  up,  as  if  fancying  he 
had  caught  a  signal.  After  a  moment  of 
hesitation  he  proceeded  on  his  northerly 
course,  but  had  not  gone  far  before  he  met 
half  a  dozen  birds  flying  south.  Perhaps 
he  asked  them  the  way.  At  all  events,  he 
wheeled  about  and  joined  them,  and  in  half 
a  minute  was  safe  in  port.  He  had  heard 
of  the  roost,  apparently  (how  and  where  ?  ), 
but  had  not  before  visited  it. 

This  count  of  August  18th  was  the  last 
for  nearly  a  month,  but  I  find  a  minute  of 
August  27th  stating  that,  while  walking 
along  the  highway  on  the  westerly  side  of 
the  roost,  —  the  side  that  had  always  been 
the  least  populous,  —  I  saw  within  less  than 
two  minutes  (as  I  calculated  the  time)  more 
than  eighty  robins  flying  toward  the  wood. 
Up  to  this  date,  then,  there  could  not  have 
been  any  considerable  falling  off  in  the  size 
of  the  gathering.  Indeed,  from  my  friend's 
observations  upon  the  Belmont  roost,  to  be 
mentioned  later,  it  seems  well-nigh  certain 
that  it  was  still  upon  the  increase. 


ROBIN  IWOSTS.  163 

Toward  the  close  of  August  I  became  in- 
terested in  the  late  singing  of  several  whip- 
poor  wills,  and  so  was  taken  away  from  the 
robins'  haunt  at  the  hour  of  sunset.  Then, 
from  the  5th  to  the  13th  of  September,  I 
was  absent  from  home.  On  the  night  of  my 
return  I  went  to  the  shore  of  the  pond,  where, 
on  the  1st  of  August,  I  had  counted  1533 
entries.  The  weather  was  favorable,  and  I 
arrived  in  good  season  and  remained  till  the 
stars  came  out,  but  I  counted  only  137  rob- 
ins! It  was  plain  that  the  great  majority 
of  the  congregation  had  departed. 

As  I  have  said,  there  was  little  to  be 
learned  by  going  into  the  wood  after  the 
robins  were  assembled.  Nevertheless  I  used 
frequently  to  intrude  upon  them,  especially 
as  friends  or  neighbors,  who  had  heard  of 
my  "discovery,"  were  desirous  to  see  the 
show.  The  prodigious  cackling  and  rustling 
overhead  seemed  to  make  a  deep  impression 
upon  all  such  visitors,  while,  for  myself, 
I  should  have  had  no  difficulty  in  credit- 
ing the  statement  had  I  been  told  that  ten 
thousand  robins  were  in  the  treetops.  One 
night  I  took  two  friends  to  the  place  after  it 
was  really  dark.  All  was  silent  as  we  felt 


164  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

our  way  among  the  trees,  till,  suddenly,  one 
of  the  trio  struck  a  match  and  kindled  a 
blaze  of  dry  twigs.  The  smoke  and  flame 
speedily  waked  the  sleepers ;  but  even  then 
they  manifested  no  disposition  to  be  driven 
out. 

For  curiosity's  sake,  I  paid  one  early 
morning  visit  to  the  roost,  on  the  30th  of 
July.  It  would  be  worth  while,  I  thought, 
to  see  how  much  music  so  large  a  chorus 
would  make,  as  well  as  to  note  the  manner 
of  its  dispersion.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  hoped 
for  something  spectacular,  —  a  grand  burst 
of  melody,  and  then  a  pouring  forth  of  a 
dense,  uncountable  army  of  robins.  I  ar- 
rived about  3.40  (it  was  still  hardly  light 
enough  to  show  the  face  of  the  watch),  and 
found  everything  quiet.  Pretty  soon  the 
robins  commenced  cackling.  At  3.45  a 
song  sparrow  sang,  and  at  the  same  moment 
I  saw  a  robin  fly  out  of  the  wood.  Five 
minutes  later  a  robin  sang;  at  3.55  another 
one  flew  past  me ;  at  four  o'clock  a  few  of 
the  birds  were  in  song,  but  the  effect  was 
not  in  any  way  peculiar,  —  very  much  as  if 
two  or  three  had  been  singing  in  the  ordi- 
nary manner.  They  dispersed  precisely  as 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  165 

I  had  seen  them  gather :  now  a  single  bird, 
now  two  or  three,  now  six,  or  even  ten.  A 
casual  passer  along  the  road  would  have  re- 
marked nothing  out  of  the  common  course. 
They  flew  low, —  not  as  if  they  were  starting 
upon  any  prolonged  flight,  —  and  a  goodly 
number  alighted  for  a  little  in  the  field 
where  I  was  standing.  Shortly  before  sun- 
rise I  went  into  the  wood  and  found  it  de- 
serted. The  robin  is  one  of  our  noisiest 
birds.  Who  would  have  believed  that  an 
assembly  of  thousands  could  break  up  so 
quietly  ?  Their  behavior  in  this  regard  may 
possibly  have  been  influenced  by  prudential 
considerations.  I  have  said  that  many  of 
them  seemingly  took  pains  to  approach  the 
roost  indirectly  and  under  cover.  On  the 
westerly  side,  for  example,  they  almost  in- 
variably followed  a  line  of  bushes  and  trees 
which  runs  toward  the  roost  along  the  edge 
of  the  meadow,  even  though  they  were 
obliged  sharply  to  alter  their  course  in  so 
doing. 

All  this  time  I  had  been  in  correspond- 
ence with  my  friend  before  referred  to,  who 
was  studying  a  similar  roost,1  —  in  Belmont, 

1  This  roost  was  discovered  by  Mr.  William  Brewster, 
in  August,  1884,  as  already  mentioned. 


166  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

—  which  proved  to  be  more  populous  than 
mine,  as  was  to  be  expected,  perhaps,  the 
surrounding  country  being  less  generally 
wooded.  It  was  a  mile  or  more  from  his 
house,  which  was  so  situated  that  he  could 
sit  upon  his  piazza  in  the  evening  and  watch 
the  birds  streaming  past.  On  the  llth  of 
August  he  counted  here  556  robins,  of  which 
336  passed  within  five  minutes.  On  the 
28th  he  counted  1180,  of  which  456  passed 
within  five  minutes,  —  ninety-one  a  minute ! 
On  the  2d  of  September,  from  a  knoll 
nearer  the  roost,  he  counted  1883  entries. 

This  gathering,  like  the  one  in  Melrose, 
was  greatly  depleted  by  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember. "Only  109  robins  flew  over  the 
place  to-night,"  my  correspondent  wrote  on 
the  25th,  "against  538  September  4th,  838 
August  30th,  and  1180  August  28th."  Two 
evenings  later  (September  27th)  he  went  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  roost,  and  counted 
251  birds, —instead  of  1883  on  the  2d. 
Even  so  late  as  October  9th,  however,  the 
wood  was  not  entirely  deserted.  During  the 
last  month  or  so  of  its  occupancy,  the  num- 
ber of  the  birds  was  apparently  subject  to 
sudden  and  wide  fluctuations,  and  it  seemed 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  167 

not  unlikely  that  travelers  from  the  north 
were  making  a  temporary  use  of  the  well- 
known  resort.  It  would  not  be  surprising 
if  the  same  were  found  to  be  true  in  the 
spring.  In  April,  1890,  I  saw  some  things 
which  pointed,  as  I  thought,  in  this  direc- 
tion, but  I  was  then  too  closely  occupied  to 
follow  the  matter. 

How  early  in  the  season  does  this  nightly 
flocking  begin?  This  question  often  pre- 
sented itself.  It  was  only  the  middle  of 
July  when  the  Cambridge  roost  was  found 
in  full  operation,  though  at  that  time  many 
robins  must  still  have  had  family  duties,  and 
some  were  probably  building  new  nests. 
Next  summer,  we  said,  we  would  try  to 
mark  the  beginnings  of  the  congregation. 

My  own  plans  to  this  end  came  near  being 
thwarted.  In  December  I  was  dismayed  to 
see  the  owner  of  the  wood  cutting  it  down. 
Happily  some  kind  power  stayed  his  hand 
when  not  more  than  a  third  of  the  mischief 
was  done,  and  on  the  29th  of  June,  1890, 
while  strolling  homeward  along  the  highway, 
listening  to  the  distant  song  of  a  veery,  I 
noticed  within  five  or  ten  minutes  seventeen 
robins  making  toward  the  old  rendezvous. 


168  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

On  the  following  evening  I  stood  beside  the 
ice-pond  and  saw  one  hundred  and  ninety- 
two  robins  enter  the  wood.  The  flight  had 
begun  before  my  arrival,  and  was  not  en- 
tirely over  when  I  came  away.  Evidently 
several  hundreds  of  the  birds  were  already 
passing  their  nights  in  company.  In  my 
ignorance,  I  was  surprised  at  the  early  date ; 
but  when  I  communicated  my  discovery  to 
the  Belmont  observer,  he  replied  at  once  that 
he  had  noticed  a  movement  of  the  same  kind 
on  the  llth  of  June.  The  birds,  about  a 
dozen,  were  seen  passing  his  house. 

Thinking  over  the  matter,  I  began  to  ask 
myself  —  though  I  hesitate  about  making 
such  a  confession  —  whether  it  might  not  be 
the  adult  males  who  thus  unseasonably  went 
off  to  bed  in  a  crowd,  leaving  their  mates  to 
care  for  eggs  and  little  ones.  At  this  very 
moment,  as  it  happened,  I  was  watching  with 
lively  sympathy  the  incessant  activities  of  a 
female  humming-bird,  who  appeared  to  be 
bringing  up  a  family  (two  very  hungry 
nestlings),  with  no  husband  to  lift  a  finger 
for  her  assistance ;  and  the  sight,  as  I  fear, 
put  me  into  a  cynical  mood.  Male  robins 
were  probably  like  males  in  general,  —  lov- 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  169 

ers  of  clubs  and  shirkers  of  home  duties. 
Indeed,  a  friend  who  went  into  the  roost 
with  me,  one  evening,  remarked  upon  the 
continual  cackling  in  the  treetops  as  "a  very 
social  sound;"  and  upon  my  saying  some- 
thing about  a  sewing  circle,  he  answered, 
quite  seriously,  "  No,  it  is  rather  like  a  gen- 
tleman's club."  But  it  would  have  been 
unscientific,  as  well  as  unchristian,  to  enter- 
tain an  hypothesis  like  this  without  putting 
its  soundness  to  some  kind  of  test.  I 
adopted  the  only  plan  that  occurred  to  me, 
—  short  of  rising  at  half  past  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  to  see  the  birds  disperse.  I 
entered  the  wood  just  before  the  assemblage 
was  due  (this  was  on  the  9th  of  July),  and 
took  a  sheltered  position  on  the  eastern  edge, 
where,  as  the  robins  flew  by  me,  or  alighted 
temporarily  in  the  trees  just  across  the  brook, 
they  would  have  the  sunlight  upon  their 
breasts.  Here,  as  often  as  one  came  suffi- 
ciently near  and  in  a  sufficiently  favorable 
light,  I  noted  whether  it  was  an  adult,  or  a 
streaked,  spotted  bird  of  the  present  season. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  the  number  concern- 
ing which  this  point  could  be  positively  de- 
termined under  such  conditions  was  very 


170  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

small,  —  only  fifty-seven  altogether.  Of 
these,  forty-nine  were  surely  birds  of  the 
present  summer,  and  only  eight  unmistak- 
able adult  males.  If  any  adult  females 
came  in,  they  passed  among  the  unidentified 
and  uncounted.1  I  was  glad  I  had  made  the 
test.  As  a  kind-hearted  cynic  (I  confess  to 
being  nothing  worse  than  this),  I  was  re- 
lieved to  find  my  misanthropic,  or,  to  speak 
more  exactly,  my  misornithic,  notions  ill 
founded.  As  for  the  sprinkling  of  adult 
males,  they  may  have  been,  as  a  "friend  and 
fellow  woodlander"  suggests,  birds  which, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  had  taken  up 
with  the  detestable  opinion  that  "marriage 
is  a  failure." 

During  the  month  of  July,  1890,  I  made 
frequent  counts  of  the  entries  at  the  eastern 
end  of  the  roost,  thinking  thus  to  ascertain 
in  a  general  way  the  rate  at  which  its  popu- 
lation increased.  On  the  whole,  the  growth 
proved  to  be  fairly  steady,  in  spite  of  some 
mysterious  fluctuations,  as  will  be  seen  by 
the  following  table :  — 

1  A  week  later,  my  correspondent  reported  a  similar 
state  of  things  at  the  Belmont  roost.  "A  very  large 
proportion  of  the  birds  are  spotted-breasted  young  of  the 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  171 

July  3  247  July  16  1064 

"     5  383  17  1333 

"6  356  19  1584 

"    10  765  22  1520 

"   12  970  23  1453 

"    14  1120  27  2314 

After  July  6th  all  the  enumerations  were 
made  with  the  help  of  another  man,  though 
we  stood  side  by  side,  and  covered  no  more 
ground  than  I  had  hitherto  attempted  to 
compass  alone.  The  figures  of  the  27th 
were  far  in  excess  of  any  obtained  in  1889, 
and  for  a  day  I  was  disposed  to  take  seri- 
ously the  suggestion  of  a  friend  that  some 
other  roost  must  have  been  broken  up  and 
its  members  turned  into  the  Melrose  gather- 
ing. But  on  the  evening  of  the  28th  I  tried 
a  count  by  myself,  and  made  only  1517 
birds !  The  conditions  were  favorable,  and 
the  robins  came,  as  they  had  come  the  night 
before,  in  flocks,  almost  in  continuous 
streams.  The  figures  had  fallen  off,  not  be- 
cause there  were  fewer  birds,  but  because 
I  was  unable  to  count  them.  They  were  lit- 

year,  but  occasionally  I  have  detected  an  adult  male." 
He  examined  the  birds  at  near  range,  and  at  rest,  after 
they  had  come  into  the  roost  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
evening. 


172  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

erally  too  many  for  me.  The  difficulties  of 
the  work,  it  should  be  explained,  are  greatly 
enhanced  by  the  fact  that  at  the  very  corner 
where  the  influx  is  largest  none  of  the  low- 
flying  birds  can  be  seen  except  for  a  second 
or  two,  as  they  dart  across  a  bit  of  sky  be- 
tween the  roost  and  an  outlying  wood.  To 
secure  anything  like  a  complete  census,  this 
point  must  be  watched  continuously;  and 
meantime  birds  are  streaming  in  at  the 
other  corner  and  shooting  over  the  distracted 
enumerator's  head,  and  perhaps  dropping 
out  of  the  sky.  1  conclude,  therefore,  not 
that  the  roost  had  increased  in  population, 
but  that  my  last  year's  reckoning  was  even 
more  inadequate  than  I  then  supposed. 
Even  with  two  pairs  of  eyes,  it  is  inevitable 
that  multitudes  of  birds  should  pass  in  un- 
noticed, especially  during  the  latter  half  of 
the  flight.  I  have  never  had  an  assistant  or 
a  looker-on  to  whom  this  was  not  perfectly 
apparent. 

As  I  stood  night  after  night  watching  the 
robins  stream  into  this  little  wood, —  no  bet- 
ter, surely,  than  many  they  had  passed  on 
their  way,  —  I  asked  myself  again  and  again 
what  could  be  the  motive  that  drew  them  to- 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  173 

gether.  The  flocking  of  birds  for  a  long 
journey,  or  in  the  winter  season,  is  less  mys- 
terious. In  times  of  danger  and  distress 
there  is  no  doubt  a  feeling  of  safety  in  a 
crowd.  But  robins  cannot  be  afraid  of  the 
dark.  Why,  then,  should  not  each  sleep 
upon  its  own  feeding  grounds,  alone,  or 
with  a  few  neighbors  for  company,  instead 
of  flying  two  or  three  miles,  more  or  less, 
twice  a  day,  simply  for  the  sake  of  passing 
the  night  in  a  general  roost? 

Such  questions  we  must  perhaps  be  con- 
tent to  ask  without  expecting  an  answer. 
By  nature  the  robin  is  strongly  gregarious, 
and  though  his  present  mode  of  existence 
does  not  permit  him  to  live  during  ijie  sum- 
mer in  close  communities,  —  as  marsh  wrens 
do,  for  example,  and  some  of  our  swallows, 
—  his  ancestral  passion  for  society  still 
asserts  itself  at  nightfall.  Ten  or  twelve 
years  ago,  when  I  was  bird-gazing  in  Bos- 
ton, there  were  sometimes  a  hundred  robins 
at  once  about  the  Common  and  Garden,  in 
the  time  of  the  vernal  migration.  By  day 
they  were  scattered  over  the  lawns;  but  at 
sunset  they  gathered  habitually  in  two  or 
three  contiguous  trees,  not  far  from  the 


174  ROBIN  ROOSTS. 

Frog  Pond  and  the  Beacon  Street  Mall  (I 
wonder  whether  the  same  trees  are  still  in 
use  for  the  same  purpose),  where,  after 
much  noise  and  some  singing,  they  retired 
to  rest,  —  if  going  to  sleep  in  a  leafless 
treetop  can  be  called  retiring. 

Whatever  the  origin  and  reason  of  this 
roosting  habit,  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is 
universal.  Middlesex  County  birds  cannot 
be  in  any  respect  peculiar.  Whoever  will 
keep  a  close  eye  upon  the  robins  in  his  neigh- 
borhood, in  July  and  August,  will  find  them 
at  sunset  flocking  to  some  general  sleeping- 
place. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  know  how  far 
they  travel  at  such  times.  The  fact  that  so 
many  hundreds  were  to  be  seen  at  a  point 
more  than  a  mile  away  from  the  Belmont 
roost  is  significant ;  but  I  am  not  aware  that 
any  one  has  yet  made  a  study  of  this  part  of 
the  subject.  My  own  birds  seemed  to  come, 
as  a  rule,  by  easy  stages.  In  the  long  nar- 
row valley  east  of  the  roost,  where  I  oftenest 
watched  their  approach,  they  followed  ha- 
bitually —  not  invariably  —  a  zigzag  route, 
crossing  the  meadow  diagonally,  and  for  the 
most  part  alighting  for  a  little  upon  a  cer- 


ROBIN  ROOSTS.  175 

tain  wooded  hill,  whence  they  took  a  final 
flight  to  their  nightly  haven,  perhaps  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  beyond.  Farther  down  the 
valley,  a  mile  or  more  from  the  roost,  birds 
were  to  be  seen  flying  toward  it,  but  I  found 
no  place  at  which  a  general  movement  could 
be  observed  and  large  numbers  counted. 

As  to  the  size  of  these  nightly  gatherings, 
it  seems  wisest  not  to  guess;  though,  treat- 
ing the  subject  in  this  narrative  manner,  I 
have  not  scrupled  to  mention,  simply  as  a 
part  of  the  story,  some  of  my  temporary  sur- 
mises. What  I  am  told  of  the  Belmont 
wood  is  true  also  of  the  one  in  Melrose :  its 
shape  and  situation  are  such  as  to  make  an 
accurate  census  impossible,  no  matter  how 
many  "enumerators"  might  be  employed. 
It  could  be  surrounded  easily  enough,  but  it 
would  be  out  of  the  question  to  divide  the 
space  among  the  different  men  so  that  no 
two  of  them  should  count  the  same  birds. 
At  present  it  can  only  be  said  that  the  rob- 
ins are  numbered  by  thousands;  in  some 
cases,  perhaps,  by  tens  of  thousands. 


THE  PASSING    OF  THE  BIKDS. 

"  The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter —  and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing." 

OMAR  KHAYYAM. 

BY  the  first  of  August  the  bird-lover's 
year  is  already  on  the  wane.  In  the  chest- 
nut grove,  where  a  month  ago  the  wood 
thrush,  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak,  and  the 
scarlet  tanager  were  singing,  the  loiterer  now 
hears  nothing  but  the  wood  pewee's  pensive 
whistle  and  the  sharp  monotony  of  the  red- 
eyed  vireo.  The  thrasher  is  silent  in  the 
berry  pasture,  and  the  bobolink  in  the 
meadow.  The  season  of  jollity  is  over. 
Orioles,  to  be  sure,  after  a  month  of  silence, 
again  have  fits  of  merry  fifing.  The  field 
sparrow  and  the  song  sparrow  are  still  in 
tune,  and  the  meadow  lark  whistles,  though 
rarely.  Catbirds  still  practice  their  feeble 
improvisations  and  mimicries  in  the  thickets 
along  the  brooksides  as  evening  comes  on, 
and  of  the  multitudes  of  robins  a  few  are 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS.         177 

certain  to  be  heard  warbling  before  the  day 
is  over.  Goldfinches  have  grown  suddenly 
numerous,  or  so  it  seems,  and  not  infre- 
quently one  of  them  breaks  out  in  musical 
canary -like  twitterings.  On  moonlight  even- 
ings the  tremulous,  haunting  cry  of  the 
screech-owl  comes  to  your  ears,  always  from 
far  away,  and  if  you  walk  through  the  chest- 
nut grove  aforesaid  in  the  daytime  you  may 
chance  to  catch  his  faint,  vibratory,  tree- 
frog  whistle.  For  myself,  I  never  enter  the 
grove  without  glancing  into  the  dry  top  of  a 
certain  tall  tree,  to  see  whether  the  little  ras- 
cal is  sitting  in  his  open  door.  More  than 
half  the  time  he  is  there,  and  always  with 
his  eye  on  me.  What  an  air  he  has !  —  like 
a  judge  on  the  bench!  If  I  were  half  as 
wise  as  he  looks,  these  essays  of  mine  would 
never  more  be  dull.  For  his  and  all  other 
late  summer  music  let  us  be  thankful ;  but 
it  is  true,  nevertheless,  that  the  year  is  wan- 
ing. How  short  it  has  been!  Only  the 
other  day  the  concert  opened,  and  already 
the  performers  are  uneasy  to  be  gone.  They 
have  crowded  so  much  into  so  brief  a  space ! 
The  passion  of  a  life-time  into  the  quarter 
of  a  year !  They  are  impatient  to  be  gone, 


178         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

I  say;  but  who  knows  how  many  of  them 
are  gone  already?  Where  are  the  blue  gol- 
den-winged warblers  that  sang  daily  on  the 
edge  of  the  wood  opposite  my  windows,  so 
that  I  listened  to  them  at  my  work  ?  I  have 
heard  nothing  of  their  rough  dsee,  dsee  since 
the  21st  of  June,  and  in  all  that  time  have 
seen  them  but  once  —  a  single  bird,  a  young- 
ling of  the  present  year,  stumbled  upon  by 
accident  while  pushing  my  way  through  a 
troublesome  thicket  on  the  first  day  of  Au- 
gust. Who  knows,  I  say,  how  many  such 
summer  friends  have  already  left  us?  An 
odd  coincidence,  however,  warns  me  at  this 
very  moment  that  too  much  is  not  to  be  made 
of  merely  negative  experiences;  for  even 
while  I  was  penciling  the  foregoing  sentence 
about  the  blue  golden -wing  there  came 
through  the  open  window  the  hoarse  upward- 
sliding  chant  of  his  close  neighbor,  the  prairie 
warbler.  I  have  not  heard  that  sound  be- 
fore since  the  6th  of  July,  and  it  is  now  the 
22d  of  August.  The  singers  had  not  gone, 
I  knew ;  I  saw  several  of  them  (and  beauti- 
ful creatures  they  are !)  a  few  days  ago  among 
the  pitch  pines ;  but  why  did  that  fellow,  af- 
ter being  dumb  for  six  or  seven  weeks,  pipe 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS.         179 

up  at  that  precise  moment,  as  if  to  punctuate 
my  ruminations  with  an  interrogation  point  ? 
Does  he  like  this  dog-day  morning,  with  its 
alternate  shower  and  sunshine,  and  its  con- 
stant stickiness  and  heat?  In  any  case  I 
was  glad  to  hear  him,  though  I  cannot  in  the 
spirit  of  veracity  call  him  a  good  singer. 
Whist!  There  goes  an  oriole,  a  gorgeous 
creature,  flashing  from  one  elm  to  another, 
and  piping  in  his  happiest  manner  as  he  flies. 
It  might  be  the  middle  of  May,  to  judge  from 
his  behavior.  He  likes  dog-day  weather, 
there  can  be  no  question  of  that,  however 
the  rest  of  the  world  may  grumble. 

This  is  a  time  when  one  sees  many  birds, 
but  few  species.  Bluebirds  are  several  times 
as  abundant  as  in  June.  The  air  is  sweet 
with  their  calls  at  this  moment,  and  once  in 
a  while  some  father  of  the  flock  lets  his  hap- 
piness run  over  in  song.  One  cannot  go  far 
now  without  finding  the  road  full  of  chip- 
ping sparrows,  springing  up  in  their  pretty, 
characteristic  way,  and  letting  the  breeze 
catch  them.  The  fences  and  wayside  apple- 
trees  are  lively  with  kingbirds  and  phrebes. 
I  am  already  watching  the  former  with  a 
kind  of  mournful  interest.  In  ten  days,  or 


180    THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

some  such  matter,  we  shall  have  seen  the 
last  of  their  saucy  antics.  Gay  tyrants! 
They  are  among  the  first  birds  of  whom  1 
can  confidently  say,  "They  are  gone;"  and 
they  seem  as  wide-awake  when  they  go  as 
when  they  come.  Being  a  man,  I  regret 
their  departure;  but  if  I  were  a  crow,  I 
think  I  should  be  for  observing  the  31st  of 
August  as  a  day  of  annual  jubilee. 

A  few  years  ago,  in  September,  I  saw  the 
white-breasted  swallows  congregated  in  the 
Ipswich  dunes,  —  a  sight  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten. On  .the  morning  of  the  9th,  the  fourth 
day  of  our  visit,  a  considerable  flock  —  but 
no  more,  perhaps,  than  we  had  been  seeing 
daily  —  came  skimming  over  the  marshes 
and  settled  upon  a  sand-bar  in  the  river, 
darkening  it  in  patches.  At  eight  o'clock, 
when  we  took  the  straggling  road  out  of 
the  hills,  a  good  many  —  there  might  be  a 
thousand,  I  guessed  —  sat  upon  the  fence 
wires,  as  if  resting.  We  walked  inland, 
and  on  our  return,  at  noon,  found,  as  my 
notes  of  the  day  express  it,  "  an  innumerable 
host,  thousands  upon  thousands,"  about  the 
landward  side  of  the  dunes.  Fences  and 
haycocks  were  covered.  Multitudes  were  on 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE   BIRDS.         181 

the  ground,  —  in  the  bed  of  the  road,  about 
the  bare  spots  in  the  marsh,  and  on  the  gray 
faces  of  the  hills.  Other  multitudes  were  in 
the  bushes  and  low  trees,  literally  loading 
them.  Every  few  minutes  a  detachment 
would  rise  into  the  air  like  a  cloud,  and  anon 
settle  down  again.  As  we  stood  gazing  at 
the  spectacle,  my  companion  began  chirping 
at  a  youngster  who  sat  near  him  on  a  post, 
as  one  might  chirp  to  a  caged  canary.  The 
effect  was  magical.  The  bird  at  once  started 
toward  him,  others  followed,  and  in  a  few 
seconds  hundreds  were  flying  about  our 
heads.  Round  and  round  they  went,  almost 
within  reach,  like  a  cloud  of  gnats.  "Stop ! 
stop!  "  cried  my  companion;  "I  am  getting 
dizzy."  We  stopped  our  squeakings,  and 
the  cloud  lifted ;  but  I  can  see  it  yet.  Day 
after  day  the  great  concourse  remained  about 
the  hills,  till  on  the  13th  we  came  away  and 
left  them.  The  old  lighthouse  keeper  told 
me  that  this  was  their  annual  rendezvous. 
He  once  saw  them  circle  for  a  loner  time 

O 

above  the  dunes,  for  several  hours,  if  I  re- 
member right,  till,  as  it  seemed,  all  strag- 
glers had  been  called  in  from  the  beach,  the 
marsh,  and  the  outlying  grassy  hills.  Then 


182         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

they  mounted  into  the  sky  in  a  great  spiral 
till  they  passed  out  of  sight;  and  for  that 
year  there  were  no  more  swallows.  This, 
he  insisted,  took  place  in  the  afternoon, 
"from  three  to  four  o'clock."  He  was  un- 
questionably telling  a  straightforward  story 
of  what  he  himself  had  seen,  but  his  memory 
may  have  been  at  fault ;  for  I  find  it  to  be 
the  settled  opinion  of  those  who  ought  to 
know,  that  swallows  migrate  by  day  and  not 
by  night,  while  the  setting  out  of  a  great 
flock  late  in  the  afternoon  at  such  a  height 
would  seem  to  indicate  a  nocturnal  journey. 
Morning  or  evening,  I  would  give  something 
to  witness  so  imposing  a  start. 

The  recollection  of  this  seaside  gathering 
raises  anew  in  my  mind  the  question  why,  if 
swallows  and  swifts  migrate  exclusively  in 
the  daytime,  we  so  rarely  see  anything  of 
them  on  the  passage.  Our  Ipswich  birds 
were  all  tree  swallows,  —  white-breasted 
martins,  —  and  might  fairly  be  supposed  to 
have  come  together  from  a  comparatively 
limited  extent  of  country.  But  beside  tree 
swallows  there  are  purple  martins,  barn 
swallows,  sand  martins,  cliff  swallows,  and 
chimney  swifts,  all  of  which  breed  to  the 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS.         183 

northward  of  us  in  incalculable  numbers. 
All  of  them  go  south  between  the  middle  of 
July  and  the  first  of  October.  But  who  in 
New  England  has  ever  seen  any  grand  army 
of  them  actually  on  the  wing?  Do  they 
straggle  along  so  loosely  as  to  escape  par- 
ticular notice?  If  so,  what  mean  congrega- 
tions like  that  in  the  Ipswich  dunes?  Or 
are  their  grand  concerted  flights  taken  at 
such  an  altitude  as  to  be  invisible? 

On  several  afternoons  of  last  September, 
this  time  in  an  inland  country,  1  observed 
what  might  fairly  be  called  a  steady  stream 
of  tree  swallows  flying  south.  Twice,  while 
gazing  up  at  the  loose  procession,  I  suddenly 
became  aware  of  a  close  bunch  of  birds  at 
a  prodigious  height,  barely  visible,  circling 
about  in  a  way  to  put  a  count  out  of  the 
question,  but  evidently  some  hundreds  in 
number.  On  both  occasions  the  flock  van- 
ished almost  immediately,  and,  as  I  be- 
lieved, by  soaring  out  of  sight.  The  second 
time  I  meant  to  assure  myself  upon  this 
point,  but  my  attention  was  distracted  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  several  large 
hawks  within  the  field  of  my  glass,  and  when 
I  looked  again  for  the  swallows  they  were 


184         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

nowhere  to  be  seen.  Were  the  stragglers 
which  I  had  for  some  time  been  watching, 
flying  high,  but  well  within  easy  ken,  and 
these  dense,  hardly  discernible  clusters  — 
hirundine  nebulae,  as  it  were  —  were  all 
these  but  parts  of  one  innumerable  host,  the 
main  body  of  which  was  passing  far  above 
me  altogether  unseen?  The  conjecture  was 
one  to  gratify  the  imagination.  It  pleased 
me  even  to  think  that  it  might  be  true. 
But  it  was  only  a  conjecture,  and  meantime 
another  question  presented  itself. 

When  this  daily  procession  had  been  no- 
ticed for  two  or  three  afternoons,  it  came  to 
me  as  something  remarkable  that  I  saw  it 
always  in  the  same  place,  or  rather  on  the 
same  north  and  south  line,  while  no  matter 
where  else  I  walked,  east  or  west,  not  a 
swallow  was  visible.  Had  I  stumbled  upon 
a  regular  route  of  swallow  migration?  It 
looked  so,  surely;  but  I  made  little  account 
of  the  matter  till  a  month  afterward,  when, 
in  exactly  the  same  place,  I  observed  robins 
and  bluebirds  following  the  same  course. 
The  robins  were  seen  October  26th,  in  four 
flocks,  succeeding  each  other  at  intervals  of  a 
few  minutes,  and  numbering  in  all  about  130 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS.         185 

birds.     They  flew  directly  south,  at  a  mod- 
erate height,  and  were  almost  certainly  de- 
tachments of  one  body.    The  bluebird  move- 
ment was  two  days  later,  at  about  the  same 
hour,  the  morning  being  cold,  with  a  little 
snow  f  ailing.    This  time,  too,  as  it  happened, 
the  flock  was  in  four  detachments.     Three 
of  these  were  too  compact  to  be  counted  as 
they  passed;  the  fourth  and  largest  one  was 
in  looser  order  and  contained  a  little  more 
than  a  hundred  individuals.     In  all,  as  well 
as  I  could  guess,  there  might  have  been  about 
three  hundred  birds.     They  kept  a  straight 
course  southward,  flying  high,  and  with  the 
usual  calls,  which,  in  autumn  at  least,  al- 
ways have  to  my  ears  a  sound  of  farewell. 
Was  it  a  mere  coincidence  that  these  swal- 
lows, bluebirds,  and  robins  were  all  crossing 
the  valley  just  at  this  point  ? 

This  question,  too,  I  count  it  safer  to  ask 
than  to  answer,  but  all  observers,  I  am  sure, 
must  have  remarked  so  much  as  this,  —  that 
birds,  even  on  their  migrations,  are  subject 
to  strong  local  preferences.  An  ornitholo- 
gist of  the  highest  repute  assures  me  that 
his  own  experience  has  convinced  him  so 
strongly  of  this  fact  that  if  he  shoots  a  rare 


186         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

migrant  in  a  certain  spot  he  makes  it  a  rule 
to  visit  the  place  again  a  year  afterward  on 
the  same  day,  and,  if  possible,  at  the  same 
hour  of  the  day.  Another  friend  sends  me 
a  very  pretty  story  bearing  upon  the  same 
point.  The  bird  of  which  he  speaks,  Wil- 
son's black-cap  warbler,  is  one  of  the  less 
common  of  our  regular  Massachusetts  mi- 
grants. I  count  myself  fortunate  if  I  see 
two  or  three  specimens  during  its  spring  or 
autumn  passage.  My  correspondent  shall 
tell  the  story  for  himself. 

"While  I  was  making  the  drawings  for 
the  'Silva,'  at  the  old  Dwight  house,  I  was 
in  the  habit  of  taking  a  turn  every  pleasant 
day  in  the  gardens  after  my  scanty  lunch. 
On  the  18th  of  May,  1887,  in  my  daily 
round  I  saw  a  Wilson's  black-cap  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life.  He  was  in  a  bush  of 
Spircea  media ,  which  grew  in  the  midst  of 
the  rockery,  and  allowed  me  to  examine  him 
at  near  range  with  no  appearance  of  fear. 
Naturally  I  made  a  note  of  the  occurrence 
in  my  diary,  and  talked  about  it  with  my 
family  when  I  got  home.  The  seeing  of  a 
new  bird  always  makes  a  red-letter  day. 

"The  next  spring,  as  I  was  looking  over 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS.         187 

my  notebook  of  the  previous  year,  I  came 
upon  my  entry  of  May  18th,  and  thought 
I  would  be  on  the  lookout  for  a  black-cap 
on  that  date.      Several    times    during   the 
morning  I  thought  of  the  matter,  and  af- 
ter my  lunch  I  sauntered  into  the  rockery 
just  as  I  had  done  the  year  before.     Imag- 
ine my  start  when  there,  in  the  very  same 
bush,  was  the  black-cap  peering  at  me ;  and 
I  found  on  looking  at  my  watch  that  it  was 
precisely  the  same  hour,  —  half   past  one ! 
I   rubbed  my  eyes  and  pinched  myself  to 
make  sure  it  was  not  a  dream.     No,  it  was 
all  real.     Of  course,  I  thought  the  coinci- 
dence  very  singular,   and  talked  about  it, 
not  only  with  my  family,  but  also  with  other 
people.      You   must  remember  that  I  had 
never  seen  the  bird  elsewhere. 

"Well,  another  spring  came  round.  The 
18th  of  May  was  fixed  in  my  mind,  and  I 
thought  many  times  of  my  black-cap  (I 
called  it  my  black-cap  now),  and  wondered 
if  it  would  keep  tryst  again.  On  the  morn- 
ing of  the  18th,  the  first  thing  I  thought  of 
when  I  awoke  was  my  black-cap.  That  fore- 
noon I  actually  felt  nervous  as  the  time  ap- 
proached, for  I  felt  a  sort  of  certainty  (you 


188         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

smile)  that  I  should  see  my  bird  again.  My 
lunch  was  hastier  than  usual,  and  I  was  about 
to  sally  forth  when  it  flashed  across  me  — 
'Suppose  the  bird  should  be  there  again, 
who  would  believe  my  story?  Hold!  I  will 

have  a  witness.'     I  called  to  Mr.  J , 

who  was  at  work  upstairs,  and  after  explain- 
ing what  I  wanted,  invited  him  to  accom- 
pany me.  We  cautiously  entered  the  rock- 
ery, and  within  a  few  minutes  there  flitted 
from  a  neighboring  thicket  into  that  very 
SpiraBa  bush  my  black-cap !  I  took  out  my 
watch.  It  was  just  half  past  one  I  " 

My  own  experiences  in  this  kind  have 
been  much  less  striking  and  dramatic  than 
the  foregoing,  but  I  may  add  that  a  few 
years  ago  I  witnessed  the  vernal  migration 
in  a  new  piece  of  country —  ten  miles  or  so 
from  my  old  field  —  and  found  myself  at  a 
very  considerable  disadvantage.  I  had  never 
realized  till  then  how  much  accustomed  I 
had  grown  to  look  for  particular  birds  in 
particular  places,  and  not  in  other  places  of 
a  quite  similar  character. 

I  speak  of  witnessing  a  migration;  but 
what  we  see  for  the  most  part  (ducks  and 
geese  being  excepted)  is  not  the  actual  move- 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS.         189 

ment  northward  or  southward.  We  see  the 
stragglers,  more  or  less  numerous,  that  hap- 
pen to  have  dropped  out  of  the  procession  in 
our  immediate  neighborhood,  —  a  flock  of 
sandpipers  about  the  edge  of  the  pond,  some 
sparrows  by  the  roadside,  a  bevy  of  war- 
blers in  the  wood,  —  and  from  these  signs 
we  infer  the  passing  of  the  host. 

Unlike  swallows,  robins,  bluebirds,  black- 
birds, and  perhaps  most  of  the  sparrows,  our 
smaller  wood  birds,  the  warblers  and  vireos 
especially,  appear  to  move  as  a  general  thing 
in  mixed  flocks.  Whenever  the  woods  are 
full  of  them,  as  is  the  case  now  and  then 
every  spring  and  fall,  one  of  the  most  strik- 
ing features  of  the  show  is  the  number 
of  species  represented.  For  the  benefit  of 
readers  who  may  never  have  observed  such 
a  "bird  wave,"  or  "rush,"  let  me  sketch  has- 
tily one  which  occurred  a  few  years  ago,  on 
the  22d  of  September.  As  I  started  out  at 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  a  cool  north- 
west wind,  birds  were  passing  overhead  in 
an  almost  continuous  stream,  following  a 
westerly  course.  They  were  chiefly  war- 
blers, but  I  noted  one  fairly  large  flock  of 
purple  finches.  All  were  at  a  good  height, 


190         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

and  the  whole  movement  had  the  air  of  a 
diurnal  migration.  I  could  only  conjecture 
that  it  was  the  end  of  the  nocturnal  flight,  so 
far,  at  least,  as  the  warblers  were  concerned ; 
in  other  words,  that  the  birds,  on  this  par- 
ticular occasion,  did  not  finish  their  nightly 
journey  till  a  little  after  sunrise.  But  if 
many  were  still  flying,  many  others  had  al- 
ready halted ;  for  presently  I  came  to  a  piece 
of  thin,  stunted  wood  by  the  roadside,  and 
found  in  it  a  highly  interesting  company. 
Almost  the  first  specimen  I  saw  was  a  Con- 
necticut warbler  perched  in  full  view  and  ex- 
posing himself  perfectly.  Eed-bellied  nut- 
hatches were  calling,  and  warblers  uncounted 
were  flitting  about  in  the  trees  and  under- 
brush. A  hurried  search  showed  black- 
polls,  black-throated  greens,  blue  yellow- 
backs, one  redstart,  one  black-and-white 
creeper,  one  Blackburnian,  one  black-and- 
yellow,  one  Canadian  flycatcher  (singing 
lustily),  one  yellow  redpoll,  and  one  clearly- 
marked  bay -breast.  The  first  yellow-bellied 
woodpecker  of  the  season  was  hammering 
in  a  tree  over  my  head,  and  not  far  away 
was  the  first  flock  of  white -throated  spar- 
rows. After  breakfast  I  passed  the  place 


THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS.         191 

again,  and  the  only  bird  to  be  found  was 
one  phcebe !  Within  half  a  mile  of  the  spot, 
however,  I  came  upon  at  least  three  goodly 
throngs,  including  scarlet  tanagers  (all  in 
yellow  and  black),  black-throated  blue  war- 
blers, pine  warblers,  olive-backed  and  gray- 
cheeked  thrushes,  a  flock  of  chewinks  (made 
up  exclusively  of  adult  males,  so  far  as  I 
could  discover),  red-eyed  vireos,  one  solitary 
vireo,  brown  thrashers,  with  more  redstarts, 
a  second  Blackburnian,  and  a  second  black- 
aiid-yellow.  Every  company  had  its  com- 
plement of  chickadees.  Of  the  morning's 
forty  species,  thirteen  were  warblers;  and 
of  these  thirteen,  four  were  represented  by 
one  specimen  each.  For  curiosity's  sake  I 
may  add  that  a  much  longer  walk  that  after- 
noon, through  the  same  and  other  woods, 
was  utterly  barren.  Except  for  two  or  three 
flocks  of  white-throated  sparrows,  there  was 
no  sign  whatever  that  the  night  before  had 
brought  us  a  "flight." 

Autumnal  ornithology  may  almost  be 
called  a  science  by  itself.  Not  only  are  birds 
harder  to  find  (being  silent)  and  harder  to 
recognize  in  autumn  than  in  spring,  but  their 
movements  are  in  themselves  more  difficult 


192         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

of  observation.  A  few  years  of  note-taking 
will  put  one  in  possession  of  the  approx- 
imate dates  of  arrival  of  all  our  common 
vernal  migrants.  Every  local  observer  will 
tell  you  when  to  look  for  each  of  the  famil- 
iar birds  of  his  neighborhood;  but  he  will 
not  be  half  so  ready  with  information  as  to 
the  time  of  the  same  birds'  departure.  Ask 
him  about  a  few  of  the  commonest,  —  the 
least  flycatcher  and  the  oven-bird,  or  the 
golden  warbler  and  the  Maryland  yellow- 
throat.  He  will  answer,  perhaps,  that  he 
has  seen  Maryland  yellow-throats  in  early 
October,  and  golden  warblers  in  early  Sep- 
tember; but  he  will  very  likely  add  that 
these  were  probably  voyagers  from  the  North, 
and  that  he  has  never  made  out  just  when 
his  own  summer  birds  take  their  leave. 

After  the  work  of  nidification  is  over, 
birds  as  a  rule  wander  more  or  less  from 
their  breeding  haunts ;  and  even  if  they  do 
not  wander  they  are  likely  to  become  silent. 
If  we  miss  them,  therefore,  we  are  not  to 
conclude  as  a  matter  of  course  that  they 
have  gone  south.  Last  year,  during  the 
early  part  of  the  season,  cuckoos  were  unu- 
sually plentiful,  as  it  seemed  to  me.  Then  I 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS.         193 

discovered  all  at  once  that  there  were  none  to 
be  found.  After  the  first  of  July  I  neither 
saw  nor  heard  a  cuckoo  of  either  species! 
Had  they  moved  away?  I  do  not  know; 
but  the  case  may  be  taken  as  an  extreme 
illustration  of  the  uncertainty  attaching  to 
the  late-summer  doings  of  birds  in  general. 
Every  student  must  have  had  experiences 
of  a  sort  to  make  him  slow  to  dogmatize 
when  such  points  are  in  question.  Through- 
out May  and  June,  for  example,  he  has 
heard  and  seen  wood  thrushes  in  a  certain 
grove.  After  that,  for  a  whole  month,  he 
hears  and  sees  nothing,  though  he  is  fre- 
quently there.  The  thrushes  have  gone? 
So  it  would  seem.  But  then,  suddenly, 
they  are  singing  again  in  the  very  same 
trees,  and  he  is  forced  to  conclude  that  they 
have  not  been  away,  but  during  their  period 
of  midsummer  silence  have  eluded  his  no- 
tice. On  the  whole,  therefore,  after  mak- 
ing allowance  for  particular  cases  in  which 
we  may  have  more  precise  information,  it 
would  be  hard,  I  think,  to  say  just  when 
our  nocturnal  travelers  set  out  on  their 
long  journey.  As  the  poet  prayed  Life  to 
do,  — 


194    THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

They  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Choose  their  own  time  ; 

Say  not  good-night,  —  but  in  May's  brighter  clime 
Bid  us  good-morning. 

Their  departure  bereaves  us,  but,  all  in 
all,  it  must  be  accounted  a  blessing.  Like 
the  falling  of  the  leaves,  it  touches  the  heart 
with  a  pleasing  sadness,  —  a  sadness  more 
delicious,  if  one  is  born  to  enjoy  it,  than  all 
the  merry-making  of  springtime.  And  even 
for  the  most  unsentimental  of  naturalists 
the  autumnal  season  has  many  a  delightful 
hour.  The  year  is  almost  done ;  but  for  the 
moment  the  whole  feathered  world  is  in  mo- 
tion, and  the  shortest  walk  may  show  him 
the  choicest  of  rarities.  Thanks  to  the  pass- 
ing of  the  birds,  his  local  studies  are  an  end- 
less pursuit.  "It  is  now  more  than  forty 
years  that  I  have  paid  some  attention  to  the 
ornithology  of  this  district,  without  being 
able  to  exhaust  the  subject,"  says  Gilbert 
White;  "new  occurrences  still  arise  as  long 
as  any  inquiries  are  kept  alive."  A  happy 
man  is  the  bird-lover;  always  another  spe- 
cies to  look  for,  another  mystery  to  solve. 
His  expectations  may  never  be  realized ;  but 
no  matter ;  it  is  the  hope,  not  its  fulfillment, 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS.    195 

that  makes  life  worth  having.  How  can 
any  New  Englander  imagine  that  he  has  ex- 
hausted the  possibilities  of  existence  so  long 
as  he  has  never  seen  the  Lincoln  finch  and 
the  Cape  May  warbler? 

But  "I  speak  as  a  fool."  Our  happiness, 
if  we  are  bird-lovers  indeed,  waits  not  upon 
novelties  and  rarities.  All  such  exceptional 
bits  of  private  good  fortune  let  the  Fates 
send  or  withhold  as  they  will.  The  grand 
spectacle  itself  will  not  fail  us.  Even  now, 
through  all  the  northern  country,  the  pro- 
cession is  getting  under  way.  For  the  next 
three  months  it  will  be  passing,  —  millions 
upon  millions :  warblers,  sparrows,  thrushes, 
vireos,  blackbirds,  flycatchers,  wrens,  king- 
lets, woodpeckers,  swallows,  humming-birds, 
hawks ;  with  sandpipers,  plovers,  ducks  and 
geese,  gulls,  and  who  knows  how  many  more  ? 
Night  and  day,  week  days  and  Sundays, 
they  will  be  flying :  now  singly  or  in  little 
groups,  and  flitting  from  one  wood  or  pas- 
ture to  another;  now  in  great  companies, 
and  with  protracted  all-day  or  all-night 
flights.  Who  could  ask  a  better  stimulus 
for  his  imagination  than  the  annual  southing 
of  this  mighty  host?  Each  member  of  it 


196         THE  PASSING   OF  THE  BIRDS. 

knows  his  own  time  and  his  own  course. 
On  such  a  day  the  snipe  will  be  in  such  a 
meadow,  and  the  golden  plover  in  such  a 
field.  Some,  no  doubt,  will  lose  their  way. 
Numbers  uncounted  will  perish  by  storm 
and  flood;  numbers  more,  alas,  by  human 
agency.  As  I  write,  with  the  sad  note  of  a 
bluebird  in  my  ear,  I  can  see  the  sea-beaches 
and  the  marshes  lined  with  guns.  But  the 
army  will  push  on ;  they  will  come  to  their 
desired  haven ;  for  there  is  a  spirit  in  birds, 
also,  "and  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty 
giveth  them  understanding." 


A  GEEAT  BLUE  HERON. 

"  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  boldness  ?  " 

SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  watcher  of  birds  in  the  bush  soon 
discovers  that  they  have  individual  as  well 
as  race  characteristics.  They  are  not 
things,  but  persons,  —  beings  with  intellect, 
affections,  and  will,  —  and  a  strong  specific 
resemblance  is  found  to  be  consistent  with 
no  small  measure  of  personal  variation.  All 
robins,  we  say,  look  and  act  alike.  But  so 
do  all  Yankees ;  yet  it  is  part  of  every  Yan- 
kee's birthright  to  be  different  from  every 
other  Yankee.  Nature  abhors  a  copy,  it 
would  seem,  almost  as  badly  as  she  abhors 
a  vacuum.  Perhaps,  if  the  truth  were 
known,  a  copy  is  a  vacuum. 

I  walked  down  the  bay  shore  of  Cape  Cod 
one  summer  morning,  and  at  a  certain  point 
climbed  the  steep  cliff  to  the  railway  track, 
meaning  to  look  into  a  large  cranberry 
meadow  where,  on  previous  visits,  I  had 


198  A   GREAT  BLUE  HERON. 

found  a  few  sandpipers  and  plovers.  Near 
one  end  of  the  perfectly  level,  saryl-covered 
meadow  was  a  little  pool,  and  my  first 
glance  in  that  direction  showed  me  a  great 
blue  heron  wading  about  its  edge.  With 
as  much  quietness  as  possible  I  stole  out  of 
sight,  and  then  hastened  up  the  railway 
through  a  cut,  till  I  had  the  sun  at  my  back 
and  a  hill  between  me  and  the  bird.  Then 
I  began  a  stealthy  approach,  keeping  behind 
one  object  after  another,  and  finally  going 
down  flat  upon  the  ground  (to  roll  in  the 
soil  is  an  excellent  method  of  cleansing 
one's  garments  on  Cape  Cod)  and  crawling 
up  to  a  patch  of  bayberry  bushes,  the  last 
practicable  cover. 

Here  let  me  say  that  the  great  blue  heron 
is,  as  its  name  implies,  a  big  bird,  stand- 
ing almost  as  high  as  an  ordinary  man,  and 
spreading  its  wings  for  nearly  or  quite  six 
feet.  Its  character  for  suspiciousness  may 
be  gathered  from  what  different  writers  have 
said  about  it.  "He  is  most  jealously  vigi- 
lant and  watchful  of  man,"  says  Wilson, 
"  so  that  those  who  wish  to  succeed  in  shoot- 
ing the  heron  must  approach  him  entirely 
unseen,  and  by  stratagem."  "Extremely 


A   GREAT  BLUE  HERON.  199 

suspicious  and  shy,"  says  Audubon.  "Un- 
less under  very  favorable  circumstances,  it 
is  almost  hopeless  to  attempt  to  approach  it. 
To  walk  up  towards  one  would  be  a  fruitless 
adventure."  Dr.  Brewer's  language  is  to 
the  same  effect,  —  "  At  all  times  very  vigi- 
lant and  difficult  of  approach." 

This,  then,  was  the  bird  which  I  now  had 
under  my  field-glass,  as  I  lay  at  full  length 
behind  the  friendly  bayberry  bushes.  Up 
to  this  point,  for  aught  that  appeared,  he 
was  quite  unaware  of  my  espionage.  Like 
all  the  members  of  his  family  that  I  have 
ever  seen,  he  possessed  so  much  patience  that 
it  required  much  patience  to  watch  him. 
For  minutes  together  he  stood  perfectly  still, 
and  his  movements,  as  a  rule,  were  either  so 
slow  as  to  be  all  but  imperceptible,  or  so 
rapid  as  almost  to  elude  the  eye.  Boys  who 
have  killed  frogs  —  which  was  pretty  cer- 
tainly my  heron's  present  employment  — 
will  need  no  explanation  of  his  behavior. 
They  know  very  well  that,  if  the  fatal  club 
is  to  do  its  work,  the  slowest  kind  of  prelim- 
inary motion  must  be  followed  by  something 
like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

I  watched  the  bird  for  perhaps  half   an 


200  A   GEE  AT  BLUE  HERON. 

hour,  admiring  his  handsome  blue  wings  as 
now  and  then  he  spread  them,  his  dainty 
manner  of  lifting  his  long  legs,  and  the 
occasional  flashing  stroke  of  his  beak.  My 
range  was  short  (for  a  field-glass,  I  mean), 
and,  all  in  all,  I  voted  it  "a  fine  show." 

When  I  wearied  of  my  position  I  rose  and 
advanced  upon  the  heron  in  full  sight,  ex- 
pecting every  moment  to  see  him  fly.  To 
my  astonishment  he  held  his  ground.  Down 
the  hillside  I  went,  nearer  and  nearer,  till  I 
came  to  a  barbed-wire  fence,  which  bounded 
the  cranberry  field  close  by  the  heron's  pool. 
As  I  worried  my  way  through  this  abomina- 
ble obstruction,  he  stepped  into  a  narrow, 
shallow  ditch  and  started  slowly  away.  I 
made  rapidly  after  him,  whereupon  he  got 
out  of  the  ditch  and  strode  on  ahead  of  me. 
By  this  time  I  was  probably  within  twenty 
yards  of  him,  so  near  that,  as  he  twisted  his 
long  neck  every  now  and  then,  and  looked 
at  me  through  his  big  yellow  eyes,  I  began 
to  wonder  whether  he  might  not  take  it  into 
his  head  to  turn  the  tables  upon  me.  A  stab 
in  the  face  with  that  ugly  sharp  beak  would 
have  been  no  laughing  matter ;  but  I  did  not 
believe  myself  in  any  danger,  and  quickened 


A   GEE  AT  BLUE  HERON.  201 

my  steps,  being  now  highly  curious  to  see 
how  near  the  fellow  I  could  get.  At  this 
he  broke  into  a  kind  of  dog-trot,  very  com- 
ical to  witness,  and,  if  I  had  not  previously 
seen  him  fly  a  few  yards,  I  should  have 
supposed  him  disabled  in  the  wing.  Dr. 
Brewer,  by  the  way,  says  that  this  bird  is 
"never  known  to  run,  or  even  to  walk 
briskly;"  but  such  negative  assertions  are 
always  at  the  maker's  risk. 

He  picked  up  his  legs  at  last,  for  I  pressed 
him  closer  and  closer,  till  there  could  not 
have  been  more  than  forty  or  fifty  feet  be- 
tween us;  but  even  then  he  settled  down 
again  beside  another  pool,  only  a  few  rods 
further  on  in  the  same  meadow,  and  there 
I  left  him  to  pursue  his  frog-hunt  unmo- 
lested. The  ludicrousness  of  the  whole 
affair  was  enhanced  by  the  fact,  already 
mentioned,  that  the  ground  was  perfectly 
flat,  and  absolutely  without  vegetation,  ex- 
cept for  the  long  rows  of  newly  planted  cran- 
berry vines.  As  to  what  could  have  influ- 
enced the  bird  to  treat  me  thus  strangely,  I 
have  no  means  of  guessing.  As  we  say  of 
each  other's  freaks  and  oddities,  it  was  his 
way,  I  suppose.  He  might  have  behaved 


202  A  GREAT  BLUE  HERON. 

otherwise,  of  course,  had  I  been  armed ;  but 
of  that  I  felt  by  no  means  certain  at  the 
time,  and  my  doubts  were  strengthened  by 
an  occurrence  which  happened  a  month  or 
so  afterward. 

I  was  crossing  the  beach  at  Nahant  with 
a  friend  when  we  stole  upon  a  pair  of  golden 
plovers,  birds  that  both  of  us  were  very 
happy  to  see.  The  splendid  old-gold  spot- 
ting of  their  backs  was  plain  enough ;  but 
immature  black-bellied  plovers  are  adorned 
in  a  similar  manner,  and  it  was  necessary 
for  us  to  see  the  rumps  of  our  birds  before 
we  could  be  sure  of  their  identity.  So, 
after  we  had  scrutinized  them  as  long  as  we 
wished,  I  asked  my  companion  to  put  them 
up  while  I  should  keep  my  glass  upon  their 
backs  and  make  certain  of  the  color  of  their 
rumps  as  they  opened  their  wings.  We 
were  already  within  a  very  few  paces  of 
them,  but  they  ran  before  him  as  he  ad- 
vanced, and  in  the  end  he  had  almost  to 
tread  on  them. 

The  golden  plover  is  not  so  unapproacha- 
ble as  the  great  blue  heron,  I  suppose,  but 
from  what  sportsmen  tell  me  about  him  I  am 
confident  that  he  cannot  be  in  the  habit  of 


A   CHEAT  BLUE  HEROX.  203 

allowing  men  to  chase  him  along  the  beach 
at  a  distance  of  five  or  six  yards.  And  it 
is  to  be  added  that,  in  the  present  instance, 
my  companion  had  a  gun  in  his  hand. 

Possibly  all  these  birds  would  have  be- 
haved differently  another  day,  even  in  what 
to  us  might  have  seemed  exactly  the  same 
circumstances.  Undoubtedly,  too,  it  is  eas- 
ier, as  an  almost  universal  rule,  to  approach 
one  or  two  birds  than  a  considerable  flock. 
In  the  larger  body  there  are  almost  certain 
to  be  a  few  timorous  souls,  —  a  few  wider- 
awake  and  better  instructed  souls,  let  us 
rather  say,  —  who  by  their  outcries  and  hasty 
flight  will  awaken  all  the  others  to  a  sense 
of  possible  danger.  But  it  is  none  the  less 
true,  as  I  said  to  begin  with,  that  individual 
birds  have  individual  ways.  And  my  great 
blue  heron,  I  am  persuaded,  was  a  "charac- 
ter." It  would  be  worth  something  to  know 
what  was  passing  behind  those  big  yellow 
eyes  as  he  twisted  his  neck  to  look  once 
more  at  the  curious  fellow  —  curious  in  two 
senses  —  who  was  keeping  after  him  so 
closely.  Was  the  heron  curious,  as  well  as 
his  pursuer?  Or  was  he  only  a  little  set  in 
his  own  way;  a  little  resentful  of  being  im- 


204  A   GREAT  BLUE  HERON. 

posed  upon ;  a  little  inclined  to  withstand  the 
"tyrant  of  his  fields,"  just  for  principle's 
sake,  as  patriots  ought  to  do?  Or  was  he  a 
young  fellow,  in  whom  heredity  had  myste- 
riously omitted  to  load  the  bump  of  caution, 
and  upon  whom  experience  had  not  yet  en- 
forced the  lesson  that  if  a  creature  is  taller 
and  stronger  than  you  are,  it  is  prudent  to 
assume  that  he  will  most  likely  think  it  a 
pleasant  bit  of  sport  to  kill  you?  It  is  no- 
thing to  the  credit  of  humankind  that  the 
sight  of  an  unsuspicious  bird  in  a  marsh  or 
on  the  beach  should  have  become  a  subject 
for  wonder. 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

"  To  know  one  element,  explore  another, 
And  in  the  second  reappears  the  first." 

EMEKSON. 

EVEKY  order  of  intelligent  beings  natu- 
rally separates  the  world  into  two  classes,  — 
itself  and  the  remainder.  Birds,  for  in- 
stance, have  no  doubt  a  feeling,  more  or  less 
clearly  defined,  which,  if  it  were  translated 
into  human  speech,  might  read,  "Birds  and 
nature."  We,  in  our  turn,  say,  "Man  and 
nature."  But  such  distinctions,  useful  as 
they  are,  and  therefore  admissible,  are  none 
the  less  arbitrary  and  liable  to  mislead. 
Birds  and  men  are  alike  parts  of  nature, 
having  many  things  in  common  not  only 
with  each  other,  but  with  every  form  of  an- 
imate existence.  The  world  is  not  a  patch- 
work, though  never  so  cunningly  put  to- 
gether, but  a  garment  woven  throughout. 

The  importance  of  this  truth,  its  far-reach- 
ing and  many-sided  significance,  is  even  yet 


206  FLO  WEES  AND  FOLKS. 

only  beginning  to  be  understood;  but  its 
bearing  upon  the  study  of  what  we  call  nat- 
ural history  would  seem  to  be  evident.  My 
own  experience  as  a  dabbler  in  botany  and 
ornithology  has  convinced  me  that  the  pur- 
suit of  such  researches  is  not  at  all  out  of 
the  spirit  of  the  familiar  line,  — 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  — 

whatever  the  author  of  the  line  may  have 
himself  intended  by  his  apothegm.  To  be- 
come acquainted  with  the  peculiarities  of 
plants  or  birds  is  to  increase  one's  know- 
ledge of  beings  of  his  own  sort. 

There  is  room,  I  think,  for  a  treatise  on 
analogical  botany,  —  a  study  of  the  human 
nature  of  plants.  Thoroughly  and  sympa- 
thetically done,  the  work  would  be  both 
surprising  and  edifying.  It  would  give  us 
a  better  opinion  of  plants,  and  possibly  a 
poorer  opinion  of  ourselves.  Some  whole- 
some first  lessons  of  this  kind  we  have  all 
taken,  as  a  matter  of  course.  "We  all  do 
fade  as  a  leaf."  "All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all 
the  goodliness  thereof  is  as  the  flower  of  the 
field."  There  are  no  household  words  more 
familiar  than  such  texts.  But  the  work  of 


FLOWERS  AND   FOLKS.  207 

which  I  am  thinking  will  deal  not  so  much 
with  our  likeness  to  tree  and  herb  as  with 
the  likeness  of  tree  and  herb  to  us;  and 
furthermore,  it  will  go  into  the  whole  sub- 
ject, systematically  and  at  length.  Mean- 
while, it  is  open  even  to  an  amateur  to  offer 
something,  in  a  general  and  discursive  way, 
upon  so  inviting  a  theme,  and  especially  to 
call  attention  to  its  scope  and  variety. 

As  I  sit  at  my  desk,  the  thistles  are  in 
their  glory,  and  in  a  vase  at  my  elbow  stands 
a  single  head  of  the  tall  swamp  variety, 
along  with  a  handful  of  fringed  gentians. 
Forgetting  what  it  is,  one  cannot  help  pro- 
nouncing the  thistle  beautiful,  —  a  close 
bunch  of  minute  rose-purple  flowers.  But 
who  could  ever  feel  toward  it  as  toward  the 
gentian  ?  Beauty  is  a  thing  not  merely  of 
form  and  color,  but  of  memory  and  associ- 
ation. The  thistle  is  an  ugly  customer. 
In  a  single  respect  it  lays  itself  out  to  be 
agreeable ;  but  even  its  beauty  is  too  much 
like  that  of  some  venomous  reptile.  Yet  it 
has  its  friends,  or,  at  all  events,  its  patrons 
(if  you  wish  to  catch  butterflies,  go  to  the 
thistle  pasture),  and  no  doubt  could  give 
forty  eloquent  and  logical  excuses  for  its 


208  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

offensive  traits.  Probably  it  felicitates  it- 
self upon  its  shrewdness,  and  pities  the  poor 
estate  of  its  defenseless  neighbors.  How 
they  must  envy  its  happier  fortune !  It  sees 
them  browsed  upon  by  the  cattle,  and  can 
hardly  be  blamed  if  it  chuckles  a  little  to 
itself  as  the  greedy  creatures  pass  it  by  un- 
touched. School-girls  and  botanists  break 
down  the  golden-rods  and  asters,  and  pull 
up  the  gerardias  and  ladies '-tresses;  but 
neither  school-girl  nor  collector  often  trou- 
bles the  thistle.  It  opens  its  gorgeous 
blossoms  and  ripens  its  feathery  fruit  unmo- 
lested. Truly  it  is  a  great  thing  to  wear  an 
armor  of  prickles ! 

"The  human  nature  of  plants,"  —  have 
I  any  reader  so  innocent  as  not  to  feel  at 
this  moment  the  appropriateness  of  the 
phrase?  Can  there  be  one  so  favored  as 
not  to  have  some  unmistakable  thistles 
among  his  Christian  townsmen  and  acquain- 
tance? Nay,  we  all  know  them.  They  are 
the  more  easily  discovered  for  standing  al- 
ways a  little  by  themselves.  They  escape 
many  slight  inconveniences  under  which 
more  amiable  people  suffer.  Whoever  finds 
himself  in  a  hard  place  goes  not  to  them  for 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  209 

assistance.  They  are  recognized  afar  as 
persons  to  be  let  alone.  Yet  they,  too,  like 
their  floral  representatives,  have  a  good  side. 
If  they  do  not  give  help,  they  seldom  ask  it. 
Once  a  year  they  may  actually  "do  a  hand- 
some thing,"  as  the  common  expression  is; 
but  they  cannot  put  off  their  own  nature ; 
their  very  generosity  pricks  the  hand  that 
receives  it,  and  when  old  Time  cuts  them 
down  with  his  scythe  (what  should  we  do 
without  this  famous  husbandman,  unkindly 
as  we  talk  of  him?)  there  will  be  no  great 
mourning. 

Is  it  then  an  unpardonable  misdemeanor 
for  a  plant  to  defend  itself  against  attack 
and  extermination?  Has  the  duty  of  non- 
resistance  no  exceptions  nor  abatements  in 
the  vegetable  kingdom?  That  would  be  in- 
deed a  hard  saying ;  for  what  would  become 
of  our  universal  favorite,  the  rose  ?  On  this 
point  there  may  be  room  for  a  diversity  of 
opinion ;  but  for  one,  I  cannot  wish  the  wild 
rose  disarmed,  lest,  through  the  recklessness 
of  its  admirers,  what  is  now  one  of  the  com- 
monest of  our  wayside  ornaments  should 
grow  to  be  a  rarity.  I  esteem  the  rose  a 
patrician,  and  fairly  entitled  to  patrician 


210  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

manners.  As  every  one  sees,  people  in  high 
station,  especially  if  they  chance  to  possess 
attractive  social  qualities,  are  of  necessity 
compelled  to  discountenance  everything  like 
careless  familiarity,  even  from  those  with 
whom  they  may  formerly  have  been  most 
intimate.  They  must  always  stand  more  or 
less  upon  ceremony,  and  never  be  handled 
without  gloves.  So  it  is  with  the  queen  of 
flowers.  Its  thorns  not  only  serve  it  as 
a  protection,  but  are  for  its  admirers '  an 
excellent  discipline  in  forbearance.  They 
make  it  easier  for  us,  as  Emerson  says,  to 
"love  the  wood  rose  and  leave  it  on  the 
stalk."  In  addition  to  which  I  am  moved 
to  say  that  the  rose,  like  the  holly,  illustrates 
a  truth  too  seldom  insisted  upon ;  namely, 
that  people  are  more  justly  condemned  for 
the  absence  of  all  good  qualities  than  for 
the  presence  of  one  or  two  bad  ones. 

Some  such  plea  as  this,  though  with  a 
smaller  measure  of  assurance,  I  should  make 
in  behalf  of  plants  like  the  barberry  and 
the  bramble.  The  latter,  in  truth,  some- 
times acts  as  if  it  were  not  so  much  fighting 
us  off  as  drawing  us  on.  Leaning  far  for- 
ward and  stretching  forth  its  arms,  it  but- 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  211 

tonholes  the  wayfarer,  so  to  speak,  and  with 
generous  country  insistence  forces  upon  him 
the  delicious  clusters  which  he,  in  his  preoc- 
cupation, seemed  in  danger  of  passing  un- 
tasted.  I  think  I  know  the  human  counter- 
parts of  both  barberry  and  bramble,  —  ex- 
cellent people  in  their  place,  though  not  to 
be  chosen  for  bosom  friends  without  a  care- 
ful weighing  of  consequences.  Judging 
them  not  by  their  manners,  but  by  their 
fruits,  we  must  set  them  on  the  right  hand. 
It  would  go  hard  with  some  of  the  most 
pious  of  my  neighbors,  I  imagine,  if  the 
presence  of  a  few  thorns  and  prickles  were 
reckoned  inconsistent  with  a  moderately 
good  character. 

As  for  reprobates  like  the  so-called  "poi- 
son ivy"  and  "poison  dogwood,"  they  have 
perhaps  borrowed  a  familiar  human  maxim, 
—  "All  is  fair  in  war."  In  any  case,  they 
are  no  worse  than  savage  heathen,  who  kill 
their  enemies  with  poisoned  arrows,  or  than 
civilized  Christians,  who  stab  the  reputation 
of  their  friends  with  poisoned  words.  Their 
marked  comeliness  of  habit  may  be  taken  as 
a  point  in  their  favor ;  or,  on  the  contrary, 
it  may  be  held  to  make  their  case  only  so 


212  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

much  the  blacker,  by  laying  them  liable  to 
the  additional  charge  of  hypocrisy.  The 
question  is  a  nice  one,  and  I  gladly  leave  it 
for  subtler  casuists  than  I  to  settle. 

How  refreshing  to  turn  from  all  these, 
from  the  thistle  and  the  bramble,  yea,  even 
from  the  rose  itself,  to  gentle  spirits  like  the 
violet  and  anemone,  the  arbutus  and  hepat- 
ica!  These  wage  no  war.  They  are  of  the 
original  Society  of  Friends.  Who  will  may 
spoil  them  without  hurt.  Their  defense  is 
with  their  Maker.  I  wonder  whether  any- 
body ever  thinks  of  such  flowers  as  repre- 
sentative of  any  order  of  grown  people,  or 
whether  to  everybody  else  they  are  forever 
children,  as  I  find,  on  thinking  of  it,  they 
have  always  been  to  me.  Lowly  and  trust- 
ful, sweet  and  frail,  "of  such  is  the  king- 
dom of  heaven."  They  pass  away  without 
losing  their  innocence.  Ere  the  first  heats 
of  summer  they  are  gone. 

Yet  the  autumn,  too,  has  its  delicate 
blooms,  though  they  are  overshadowed  and, 
as  it  were,  put  out  of  countenance  by  the 
coarser  growths  which  must  be  said  to  char- 
acterize the  harvest  season.  Nothing  that 
May  puts  into  her  lap  is  more  exquisite  than 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  213 

are  the  purple  gerardias  with  which  August 
and  September  embroider  the  pasture  and 
the  woodland  road.  They  have  not  the 
sweet  breath  of  the  arbutus,  nor  even  the 
faint  elusive  odor  of  the  violet,  but  for  dain- 
tiness of  form,  perfection  of  color,  and  grace- 
fulness of  habit  it  would  be  impossible  to 
praise  them  too  highly.  Of  our  three  spe- 
cies, my  own  favorite  is  the  one  of  the  nar- 
row leaves  ( Gerardia  tenuifolia),  its  longer 
and  slighter  flower -stems  giving  it  an  airi- 
ness and  grace  peculiarly  its  own.  A  lady 
to  whom  I  had  brought  a  handful  the  other 
day  expressed  it  well  when  she  said,  "Ihey 
look  like  fairy  flowers."  They  are  of  my 
mind  in  this :  they  love  a  dry,  sunny  open- 
ing in  the  woods,  or  a  grassy  field  on  the 
edge  of  woods,  especially  if  there  be  a  sel- 
dom-used path  running  through  it.  I  know 
not  with  what  human  beings  to  compare  them. 
Perhaps  their  antitypes  of  our  own  kind  are 
yet  to  be  evolved.  But  I  have  before  now 
seen  a  woman  who  might  worthily  be  set  in 
their  company,  —  a  person  whose  sweet  and 
wise  actions  were  so  gracefully  carried  and 
so  easily  let  fall  as  to  suggest  an  order 
and  quality  of  goodness  quite  out  of  rela- 
tion to  common  flesh  and  blood. 


214  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

What  a  contrast  between  such  lowly- 
minded,  unobtrusive  beauties  and  egotists 
like  our  multitudinous  asters  and  golden  - 
rods!  These,  between  them,  almost  take 
possession  of  the  world  for  the  two  or  three 
months  of  their  reign.  They  are  handsome, 
and  they  know  it.  What  is  beauty  for,  if 
not  to  be  admired?  They  mass  their  tiny 
blossoms  first  into  solid  heads,  then  into 
panicles  and  racemes,  and  have  no  idea  of 
hiding  their  constellated  brightness  under  a 
bushel.  "Let  your  light  shine!"  is  the 
word  they  go  on.  How  eagerly  they  crowd 
along  the  roadside,  till  the  casual  passer-by 
can  see  scarce  anything  else!  If  he  does 
not  see  them,  it  is  not  their  fault. 

For  myself,  I  am  far  from  wishing  them 
at  all  less  numerous,  or  a  jot  less  forward 
in  displaying  their  charms.  Let  there  be 
variety,  I  say.  Because  I  speak  well  of  the 
violet  for  its  humility,  I  see  no  reason  why 
I  should  quarrel  with  the  aster  for  loving 
to  make  a  show.  Herein,  too,  plants  are 
like  men.  An  indisposition  toward  pub- 
licity is  amiable  in  those  to  whom  it  is  nat- 
ural ;  but  I  am  not  clear  that  bashf ulness  is 
the  only  commendable  quality.  Let  plants 


FLO  WEES  AND  FOLKS.  215 

and  men  alike  carry  themselves  according  to 
their  birthright.  Providence  has  not  or- 
dained a  diversity  of  gifts  for  nothing,  and 
it  is  only  a  narrow  philosophy  that  takes 
offense  at  seeming  contrarieties.  The  truer 
method,  and  the  happier  as  well,  is  to  like 
each  according  to  its  kind :  to  love  that  which 
is  amiable,  to  admire  that  which  is  admir- 
able, and  to  study  that  which  is  curious. 

A  few  weeks  ago,  for  example,  I  walked 
again  up  the  mountain  road  that  climbs  out 
of  the  Franconia  Valley  into  the  Franconia 
Notch.  I  had  left  home  twenty-four  hours 
before,  fresh  from  working  upon  the  asters 
and  golden-rods  (trying  to  straighten  out  my 
local  catalogue  in  accordance  with  Dr.  Gray's 
more  recent  classification  of  these  large  and 
Difficult  genera),  and  naturally  enough  had 
asters  and  golden-rods  still  in  my  eye.  The 
first  mile  or  two  afforded  nothing  of  particu- 
lar note,  but  by  and  by  I  came  to  a  cluster 
of  the  sturdy  and  peculiar  Solidago  squar- 
rosa,  and  was  taking  an  admiring  account 
of  its  appearance  and  manner  of  growth, 
when  I  caught  sight  of  some  lower  blue 
flower  underneath,  which  on  a  second  glance 
proved  to  be  the  closed  gentian.  This  grew 


216  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

in  hiding,  as  one  might  say,  in  the  shadow 
of  its  taller  and  showier  neighbors.  Not  far 
off,  but  a  little  more  within  the  wood,  were 
patches  of  the  linnsea,  which  had  been  at  its 
prettiest  in  June,  but  even  now,  in  late  Sep- 
tember, was  still  putting  forth  scattered  blos- 
soms. What  should  a  man  do?  Discard 
the  golden-rod  for  the  gentian,  and  in  turn 
forsake  the  gentian  for  the  twin -flower? 
Nay,  a  child  might  do  that,  but  not  a  man ; 
for  the  three  were  all  beautiful  and  all  in- 
teresting, and  each  the  more  beautiful  and 
interesting  for  its  unlikeness  to  the  others. 
If  one  wishes  a  stiff  lesson  in  classification, 
there  are  few  harder  genera  (among  flower- 
ing plants)  than  Solidago ;  if  he  would  in- 
vestigate the  timely  and  taking  question  of 
the  dependence  of  plants  upon  insects,  this 
humble  "proterandrous"  gentian  (which  to 
human  vision  seems  closed,  but  which  the 
humble-bee  knows  well  how  to  enter)  offers 
him  a  favorable  subject ;  while  if  he  has  an 
eye  for  beauty,  a  nose  for  delicate  fragrance, 
and  a  soul  for  poetry,  the  linnsea  will  never 
cease  to  be  one  of  his  prime  favorites.  So 
I  say  again,  let  us  have  variety.  It  would 
be  a  stupid  town  all  whose  inhabitants  should 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  217 

be  of  identical  tastes  and  habits,  though 
these  were  of  the  very  best;  and  it  would 
be  a  tiresome  country  that  brought  forth  only 
a  single  kind  of  plants. 

The  flower  of  Linnaeus  is  a  flower  by  it- 
self, as  here  and  there  appears  a  man  who 
seems,  as  we  say,  sui  generis.  This  familiar 
phrase,  by  the  bye,  is  literally  applicable  to 
Linncea  borealis,  a  plant  that  spreads  over 
a  large  part  of  the  northern  hemisphere, 
but  everywhere  preserves  its  own  specific 
character;  so  that,  whether  it  be  found  in 
Greenland  or  in  Maryland,  on  the  Alas- 
kan Islands  or  in  Utah,  in  Siberia  or  on  the 
mountains  of  Scotland,  it  is  always  and 
everywhere  the  same,  —  a  genus  of  one 
species.  Diversities  of  soil  and  climate 
make  no  impression  upon  its  originality. 
If  it  live  at  all,  it  must  live  according  to 
its  own  plan. 

The  aster,  on  the  contrary,  has  a  special 
talent  for  variation.  Like  some  individuals 
of  another  sort,  it  is  born  to  adapt  itself 
to  circumstances.  Dr.  Gray  enumerates  no 
less  than  one  hundred  and  ninety-six  North 
American  species  and  varieties,  many  of 
which  shade  into  each  other  with  such  end- 


218  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

less  and  well-nigh  insensible  gradations  that 
even  our  great  special  student  of  the  Com- 
positce  pronounces  the  accurate  and  final 
classification  of  this  particular  genus  a  labor 
beyond  his  powers.  What  shall  we  say  of 
this  habit  of  variability  ?  Is  it  a  mark  of 
strength  or  of  weakness?  Which  is  nobler, 
—  to  be  true  to  one's  ideal  in  spite  of  cir- 
cumstances, or  to  conquer  circumstances  by 
suiting  one's  self  to  them?  Who  shall  de- 
cide? Enough  that  the  twin-flower  and  the 
star-flower  each  obeys  its  own  law,  and  in  so 
doing  contributes  each  its  own  part  toward 
making  this  world  the  place  of  diversified 
beauty  which  it  was  foreordained  to  be. 

I  spoke  of  the  linnaea's  autumnal  blossoms, 
though  its  normal  flowering  time  is  in  June. 
Even  this  steady-going,  unimpressible  citi- 
zen of  the  world,  it  appears,  has  its  one  bit 
of  freakishness.  In  these  bright,  summery 
September  days,  when  the  trees  put  on  their 
glory,  this  lowliest  member  of  the  honey- 
suckle family  feels  a  stirring  within  to  make 
itself  beautiful ;  and  being  an  evergreen  (in- 
stead of  a  summer-green),  and  therefore  in- 
capable of  bedecking  itself  after  the  maple's 
manner,  it  sends  up  a  few  flower-stems, 


FLO  WEES  AND  FOLKS.  219 

each  with  its  couple  of  swinging,  fragrant 
bells.  So  it  bids  the  world  good-by  till  the 
long  winter  once  more  comes  and  goes. 

The  same  engaging  habit  is  noticeable  in 
the  case  of  some  of  our  very  commonest 
plants.  After  the  golden-rods  and  asters 
have  had  their  day,  late  in  October  or  well 
into  November,  when  witch-hazel,  yarrow, 
and  clover  are  almost  the  only  blossoms  left 
us,  you  will  stumble  here  and  there  upon 
a  solitary  dandelion  reflecting  the  sun,  or 
a  violet  giving  back  the  color  of  the  sky. 
And  even  so,  you  may  find,  once  in  a 
while,  an  old  man  in  whom  imaginative  im- 
pulses have  sprung  up  anew,  now  that  all 
the  prosaic  activities  of  middle  life  are  over. 
It  is  almost  as  if  he  were  born  again.  The 
song  of  the  April  robin,  the  blossoming  of 
the  apple-tree,  the  splendors  of  sunset  and 
sunrise,  —  these  and  things  like  them  touch 
him  to  pleasure,  as  he  now  remembers  they 
used  to  do  years  and  years  ago.  What  means 
this  strange  revival  of  youth  in  age  ?  Is  it  a 
reminiscence  merely,  a  final  flickering  of  the 
candle,  or  is  it  rather  a  prophecy  of  life  yet 
to  come  ?  Well,  with  the  dandelion  and  the 
violet  we  know  with  reasonable  certainty 


220  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

how  the  matter  stands.  The  autumnal 
blooms  are  not  belated,  but  precocious ;  they 
belong  not  to  the  season  past,  but  to  the 
season  coming.  Who  shall  forbid  us  to 
hope  that  what  is  true  of  the  violet  will 
prove  true  also  of  the  man? 

It  speaks  well  for  human  nature  that  in 
the  long  run  the  lowliest  flowers  are  not 
only  the  best  loved,  but  the  oftenest  spoken 
of.  Men  play  the  cynic :  modest  merit  goes 
to  the  wall,  they  say;  whoever  would  suc- 
ceed, let  him  put  on  a  brazen  face  and 
sharpen  his  elbows.  But  those  who  talk  in 
this  strain  deceive  neither  themselves  nor 
those  who  listen  to  them.  They  are  com- 
monly such  as  have  themselves  tried  the 
trumpet  and  elbow  method,  and  have  dis- 
covered that,  whatever  may  be  true  of  tran- 
sient notoriety,  neither  public  fame  nor  pri- 
vate regard  is  to  be  won  by  such  means.  We 
do  not  retract  what  we  have  said  in  praise  of 
diversity,  and  about  the  right  of  each  to  live 
according  to  its  own  nature,  but  we  gladly 
perceive  that  in  the  case  of  the  flowers  also 
it  is  the  meek  that  inherit  the  earth. 

Our  appreciation  of  our  fellow-men  de- 
pends in  part  upon  the  amount,  but  still  more 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  221 

upon  the  quality,  of  the  service  they  render 
us.  We  could  get  along  without  poets  more 
comfortably  than  without  cobblers,  for  the 
lower  use  is  often  first,  in  order  both  of  time 
and  of  necessity ;  but  we  are  never  in  doubt 
as  to  their  relative  place  in  our  esteem.  One 
serves  the  body,  the  other  the  soul;  and  we 
reward  the  one  with  money,  the  other  with 
affection  and  reverence.  And  our  estimation 
of  plants  is  according  to  the  same  rule. 
Such  of  them  as  nourish  the  body  are  good, 
—  good  even  to  the  point  of  being  indispens- 
able ;  but  as  we  make  a  difference  between 
the  barnyard  fowl  and  the  nightingale,  and 
between  the  common  run  of  humanity  and  a 
Beethoven  or  a  Milton,  so  maize  and  potatoes 
are  never  put  into  the  same  category  with 
lilies  and  violets.  It  must  be  so,  because 
man  is  more  than  an  animal,  and  "the  life 
is  more  than  meat." 

Again  we  say,  let  each  fulfill  its  own 
function.  One  is  made  for  utility,  another 
for  beauty.  For  plants,  too,  are  specialists. 
They  know  as  well  as  men  how  to  make  the 
most  of  inherited  capacities  and  aptitudes, 
achieving  distinction  at  last  by  the  simple 
process  of  sticking  to  one  thing,  whether 


222  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

that  be  the  production  of  buds,  blossoms, 
berries,  leaves,  bark,  timber,  or  what  not; 
and  our  judgment  of  them  must  be  corre- 
spondingly varied.  The  vine  bears  blos- 
soms, but  is  to  be  rated  not  by  them,  but  by 
the  grapes  that  come  after  them;  and  the 
rose-tree  bears  hips,  but  takes  its  rank  not 
from  them,  but  from  the  flowers  that  went 
to  the  making  of  them.  "Nothing  but 
leaves  "is  a  verdict  unfavorable  or  other- 
wise according  to  its  application.  The  tea- 
shrub  would  hold  up  its  head  to  hear  it. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  and  sugges- 
tive points  of  difference  among  plants  is 
that  which  relates  to  the  matter  of  self- 
reliance.  Some  are  made  to  stand  alone, 
others  to  twine,  and  others  to  creep.  If  it 
were  allowable  to  attribute  human  feelings  to 
them,  we  should  perhaps  be  safe  in  assuming 
that  the  upright  look  down  upon  the  climb- 
ers, and  the  climbers  in  turn  upon  the  creep- 
ers; for  who  of  us  does  not  felicitate  him- 
self upon  his  independence,  such  as  it  is,  or 
such  as  he  imagines  it  to  be?  But  if  inde- 
pendence is  indeed  a  boon,  — and  I,  for  one, 
am  too  thoroughbred  a  New  Englander  ever 
to  doubt  it,  —  it  is  not  the  only  good,  nor 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  223 

even  the  highest.  The  nettle,  standing 
straight  and  prim,  asking  no  favors  of  any- 
body, may  rail  at  the  grape-vine,  which  must 
lay  hold  of  something,  small  matter  what, 
by  which  to  steady  itself;  but  the  nettle 
might  well  be  willing  to  forego  somewhat  of 
its  self-sufficiency,  if  by  so  doing  it  could 
bring  forth  grapes.  The  smilax,  also,  with 
its  thorns,  its  pugnacious  habit,  and  its 
stony,  juiceless  berries,  a  sort  of  handsome 
vixen  among  vines,  —  the  smilax,  which  can 
climb  though  it  cannot  stand  erect,  has  little 
occasion  to  lord  it  over  the  strawberry.  If 
one  has  done  nothing,  or  worse  than  nothing, 
it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  boast  of  the  orig- 
inal fashion  in  which  he  has  gone  about  it. 
Moreover,  the  very  plants  of  which  we  are 
speaking  bear  witness  to  the  fact  that  it  is 
possible  to  accept  help,  and  still  retain  to 
the  full  one's  own  individuality.  The  straw- 
berry is  no  more  a  plagiarist  than  the  smilax, 
nor  the  grape  than  the  nettle.  If  the  vine 
clings  to  the  cedar,  the  connection  is  but 
mechanical.  Its  spirit  and  life  are  as  inde- 
pendent of  the  savin  as  of  the  planet  Jupiter. 
Even  the  dodder,  which  not  only  twines 
about  other  weeds,  but  actually  sucks  its 


224  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

life  from  them,  does  not  thereby  lose  an  iota 
of  its  native  character.  If  a  man  is  only 
original  to  begin  with,  —  so  the  parable 
seems  to  run,  —  he  is  under  a  kind  of  neces- 
sity to  remain  so  (as  Shakespeare  did),  no 
matter  how  much  help  he  may  draw  from 
alien  sources. 

This  truth  of  the  vegetable  world  is  the 
more  noteworthy,  because  along  with  it  there 
goes  a  very  strong  and  persistent  habit  of 
individual  variation.  The  plant  is  faithful 
to  the  spirit  of  its  inherited  law,  but  is  not 
in  bondage  to  the  letter.  Our  "high-bush 
blackberries,"  to  take  a  familiar  illustration, 
are  all  of  one  species,  but  it  does  not  follow 
that  they  are  all  exactly  alike.  So  far  from 
it,  I  knew  in  my  time  —  and  the  school-boys 
of  the  present  day  are  not  less  accurately 
informed,  we  may  presume  —  where  to  find 
berries  of  all  shapes,  sizes,  and  flavors. 
Some  were  sour,  and  some  were  bitter,  and 
some  (I  can  taste  them  yet)  were  finger- 
shaped  and  sweet.  And  what  is  true  of 
Rubus  mllosus  is  probably  true  of  all  plants, 
though  in  varying  degrees.  I  do  not  re- 
call a  single  article  of  our  annual  wild  crop 
• — blueberries,  huckleberries,  blackberries, 


FLOWERS   AND  FOLKS.  225 

cherries,  grapes,  pig-nuts  (a  bad  name  for 
a  good  thing),  shagbarks,  acorns,  and  so 
forth  —  in  which  there  was  not  this  constant 
inequality  among  plants  of  the  same  species, 
perfectly  well  defined,  and  never  lost  sight 
of  by  us  juvenile  connoisseurs.  If  we  failed 
to  find  the  same  true  of  other  vines  and 
bushes,  which  for  our  purposes  bore  blos- 
soms only,  the  explanation  is  not  far  to  seek. 
Our  perceptions,  aesthetic  and  gastronomic, 
were  unequally  developed.  We  were  in  the 
case  of  the  man  to  whom  a  poet  is  a  poet, 
though  he  knows  very  well  that  there  are 
cooks  and  cooks. 

It  is  this  slight  but  everywhere  present 
admixture  of  the  personal  quality  —  call  it 
individuality,  or  what  you  will  —  that  saves 
the  world,  animal  and  vegetable  alike,  from 
stagnation.  Every  bush,  every  bird,  every 
man,  together  with  its  unmistakable  and  in- 
eradicable likeness  to  the  parent  stock,  has 
received  also  a  something,  be  it  more  or  less, 
that  distinguishes  it  from  all  its  fellows. 
Let  our  observation  be  delicate  enough,  and 
we  shall  perceive  that  there  are  no  dupli- 
cates of  any  kind,  the  world  over.  It  is 
part  of  the  very  unity  of  the  world,  this 
universally  diffused  diversity. 


226  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

It  does  a  sympathetic  observer  good  to 
see  how  humanly  plants  differ  in  their  likes 
and  dislikes.  One  is  catholic  :  as  common 
people  say,  it  is  not  particular;  it  can  live 
and  thrive  almost  anywhere.  Another  must 
have  precisely  such  and  such  conditions,  and 
is  to  be  found,  therefore,  only  in  very  re- 
stricted localities.  The  Dioncea,  or  Venus's 
fly-trap,  is  a  famous  example  of  this  fastidi- 
ousness, growing  in  a  small  district  of  North 
Carolina,  and,  as  far  as  appears,  nowhere 
else,  —  a  highly  specialized  plant,  with  no 
generic  relative.  Another  instance  is  fur- 
nished by  a  water  lily  (Nymplicea  elegans), 
the  rediscovery  of  which  is  chronicled  in  a 
late  issue  of  one  of  our  botanical  journals.1 
"This  lily  was  originally  found  in  1849,  and 
has  never  been  seen  since,  holding  its  place 
in  botanical  literature  for  these  almost  forty 
years  on  the  strength  of  a  single  collection 
at  a  single  vaguely  described  station  on  the 
broad  prairies  of  southwestern  Texas ;  "  now, 
after  all  this  time,  it  turns  up  again  in*  an- 
other quarter  of  the  same  State.  And  every 
student  could  report  cases  of  a  similar  char- 

1  The  Bulletin  of  the  Torrey  Botanical  Club  for  Janu- 
ary. 1888,  page  13. 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  227 

acter,  though  less  striking  than  these,  of 
course,  within  the  limits  of  his  own  local 
researches.  If  you  ask  me  where  I  find 
dandelions,  I  answer,  anywhere ;  but  if  you 
wish  me  to  show  you  the  sweet  colt's-foot 
(Nardosmia  palmata),  you  must  go  with 
me  to  one  particular  spot.  Any  of  my 
neighbors  will  tell  you  where  the  pink  moc- 
casin flower  grows;  but  if  it  is  the  yellow 
one  you  are  in  search  of,  I  shall  swear  you 
to  secrecy  before  conducting  you  to  its 
swampy  hiding-place.  Some  plants,  like 
some  people  (but  the  plants,  be  it  noted,  are 
mostly  weeds),  seem  to  flourish  best  away 
from  home ;  others  die  under  the  most  care- 
ful transplanting.  Some  are  lovers  of  the 
open,  and  cannot  be  too  much  in  the  sun ; 
others  lurk  in  deep  woods,  under  the  triple 
shadow  of  tree  and  bush  and  fern.  Some 
take  to  sandy  hill-tops ;  others  must  stand 
knee-deep  in  water.  One  insists  upon  the 
richest  of  meadow  loam;  another  is  con- 
tent with  the  face  of  a  rock.  We  may  say 
of  them  as  truly  as  of  ourselves,  De  gusti- 
bus  non  est  disputandum.  Otherwise,  how 
would  the  earth  ever  be  clothed  with  ver- 
dure? 


228  FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS. 

But  plants  are  subject  to  other  whims  not 
less  pronounced  than  these  which  have  to  do 
with  the  choice  of  a  dwelling-place.  We 
may  call  it  the  general  rule  that  leaves  come 
before  flowers ;  but  how  many  of  our  trees 
and  shrubs  reverse  this  order  !  The  singu- 
lar habit  of  the  witch-hazel,  whose  blossoms 
open  as  the  leaves  fall,  may  be  presumed  to 
be  familiar  to  all  readers;  and  hardly  less 
curious  is  the  freak  of  the  chestnut,  which, 
almost  if  not  quite  alone  among  our  amen- 
taceous trees,  does  not  put  on  its  splendid 
coronation  robes  till  late  in  June,  and  is 
frequently  at  the  height  of  its  magnificence 
in  mid- July.  What  a  pretty  piece  of  vari- 
ety have  we,  again,  in  the  diurnal  arid  the 
nocturnal  bloomers!  For  my  own  part, 
being  a  watcher  of  birds,  and  therefore  al- 
most of  necessity  an  early  stirrer  abroad,  I 
profess  a  special  regard  for  such  plants  as 
save  their  beauty  for  night-time  and  cloudy 
weather.  The  evening  primrose  is  no  favor- 
ite with  most  people,  I  take  it,  but  I  seldom 
fail  to  pick  a  blossom  or  two  with  the  dew 
on  them.  Those  to  whom  I  carry  them  usu- 
ally exclaim  as  over  some  wonderful  exotic, 
though  the  primrose  is  an  inveterate  haunter 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  229 

of  the  roadside.  Yet  its  blossoms  have  only 
to  be  looked  at  and  smelled  of  to  make  their 
way,  homely  as  is  the  stalk  that  produces 
them.  They  love  darkness  rather  than 
light,  but  it  certainly  is  not  "because  their 
deeds  are  evil."  One  might  as  well  cast 
the  opprobrious  text  in  the  face  of  the  moon 
and  stars.  Now  and  then  some  enterprising 
journalist,  for  want  of  better  employment, 
investigates  anew  the  habits  of  literary  work- 
ers ;  and  it  invariably  transpires  that  some 
can  do  their  best  only  by  daylight,  while 
the  minds  of  others  seem  to  be  good  for 
nothing  till  the  sun  goes  down;  and  the 
wise  reader,  who  reads  not  so  much  to  gain 
information  as  to  see  whether  the  writer 
tells  the  truth,  shakes  his  head,  and  says, 
"Oh,  it  is  all  in  use."  Of  course  it  is  all 
in  use,  just  as  it  is  with  whippoorwills  and 
the  morning-glory. 

The  mention  of  the  evening  primrose  calls 
for  the  further  remark  that  plants,  not  less 
than  ourselves,  have  a  trick  of  combining 
opposite  qualities,  —  a  coarse-grained  and 
scraggy  habit,  for  instance,  with  blossoms 
of  exquisite  fragrance  and  beauty.  The 
most  gorgeous  flowers  sometimes  exhale  an 


230  FLOWERS  AND   FOLKS. 

abominable  odor,  and  it  is  not  unheard  of 
that  inconspicuous  or  even  downright  homely 
sorts  should  be  accounted  precious  for  their 
sweetness;  while,  as  everybody  knows,  few 
members  of  our  native  flora  are  more  grace- 
ful in  appearance  than  the  very  two  whose 
simple  touch  is  poison.  Could  anything  be 
more  characteristic  of  human  nature  than 
just  such  inconsistencies?  Suavity  and 
trickery,  harshness  and  integrity,  a  fiery 
temper  and  a  gentle  heart,  —  how  often  do 
we  see  the  good  and  the  bad  dwelling  to- 
gether! We  would  have  ordered  things  dif- 
ferently, I  dare  say,  had  they  been  left  to 
us,  —  the  good  should  have  been  all  good, 
and  the  bad  all  bad ;  and  yet,  if  it  be  a  grief 
to  feel  that  the  holiest  men  have  their  fail- 
ings, it  ought  perhaps  to  be  a  consolation, 
rather  than  an  additional  sorrow,  to  perceive 
that  the  most  vicious  are  not  without  their 
virtues.  Beyond  which,  shall  we  presume  to 
suggest  that  as  poisons  have  their  use,  so 
moral  evil,  give  it  time  enough,  may  turn  out 
to  be  not  altogether  a  curse  ? 

I  have  treated  my  subject  too  fancifully, 
I  fear.  Indeed,  there  comes  over  me  at  this 
moment  a  sudden  suspicion  that  my  subject 


FLOWERS  AND  FOLKS.  231 

itself  is  nothing  but  a  fancy,  or,  worse  yet, 
a  profanation.  If  the  flowers  could  talk, 
who  knows  how  earnestly  they  might  depre- 
cate all  such  misguided  attempts  at  doing 
them  honor,  —  as  if  it  were  anything  but 
a  slander,  this  imputation  to  them  of  the 
foibles,  or  even  the  self-styled  good  quali- 
ties, of  our  poor  humanity !  What  an  egoist 
is  man!  I  seem  to  hear  them  saying; 
look  where  he  will,  at  the  world  or  at  its 
Creator,  he  sees  nothing  but  the  reflection 
of  his  own  image. 


IN  PEAISE   OF    THE   WEYMOUTH 
PINE. 

"  I  seek  in  the  motion  of  the  forest,  in  the  sound  of  the 
pines,  some  accents  of  the  eternal  language." 

SENANCOUB. 

I  COULD  never  think  it  surprising  that  the 
ancients  worshiped  trees;  that  groves  were 
believed  to  be  the  dwelling  places  of  the 
gods;  that  Xerxes  delighted  in  the  great 
plane-tree  of  Lydia;  that  he  decked  it  with 
golden  ornaments  and  appointed  for  it  a 
sentry,  one  of  "the  immortal  ten  thousand." 
Feelings  of  this  kind  are  natural;  among 
natural  men  they  seem  to  have  been  well- 
nigh  universal.  The  wonder  is  that  any 
should  be  without  them.  For  myself,  I  can- 
not recollect  the  day  when  I  did  not  regard 
the  Weymouth  pine  (the  white  pine  I  was 
taught  to  call  it,  but  now,  for  reasons  of  my 
own,  I  prefer  the  English  name)  with  some- 
thing like  reverence.  Especially  was  this 
true  of  one,  —  a  tree  of  stupendous  girth  and 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTH  PINE.    233 

height,  under  which  I  played,  and  up  which 
I  climbed  till  my  cap  seemed  almost  to  rub 
against  the  sky.  That  pine  ought  to  be 
standing  yet ;  I  would  go  far  to  lie  in  its 
shadow.  But  alas !  no  village  Xerxes  con- 
cerned himself  for  its  safety,  and  long,  long 
ago  it  was  brought  to  earth,  it  and  all  its 
fair  lesser  companions.  There  is  no  wisdom 
in  the  grave,  and  it  is  nothing  to  them  now 
that  I  remember  them  so  kindly.  Some  of 
them  went  to  the  making  of  boxes,  I  sup- 
pose, some  to  the  kindling  of  kitchen  fires. 
In  like  noble  spirit  did  the  illustrious  Bo- 
bo,  for  the  love  of  roast  pig,  burn  down  his 
father's  house. 

No  such  pines  are  to  be  seen  now.  I  have 
said  it  for  these  twenty  years,  and  mean  no 
offense,  surely,  to  the  one  under  which,  in 
thankful  mood,  I  happen  at  this  moment  to 
be  reclining.  Yet  a  murmur  runs  through 
its  branches  as  I  pencil  the  words.  Perhaps 
it  is  saying  to  itself  that  giants  are,  and 
always  have  been,  things  of  the  past,  — 
things  gazed  at  over  the  beholder's  shoulder 
and  through  the  mists  of  years;  and  that 
this  venerable  monarch  of  my  boyhood,  this 
relic  of  times  remote,  has  probably  grown 


234    IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WE  YMO  UTII  PINE. 

faster  since  it  was  cut  down  than  ever  it  did 
while  standing.  I  care  not  to  argue  the 
point.  Rather,  let  me  be  glad  that  a  tree 
is  a  tree,  whether  large  or  small.  What  a 
wonder  of  wonders  it  would  seem  to  unac- 
customed eyes  !  As  some  lover  of  imagina- 
tive delights  wished  that  he  could  forget 
Shakespeare  and  read  him  new,  so  I  would 
cheerfully  lose  all  memory  of  my  king  of 
Weymouth  pines,  if  by  that  means  I  might 
for  once  look  upon  a  tree  as  upon  something 
I  had  never  seen  or  dreamed  of. 

For  that  purpose,  were  it  given  me  to 
choose,  I  would  have  one  that  had  grown 
by  itself ;  full  of  branches  on  all  sides,  but 
with  no  suggestion  of  primness ;  in  short,  a 
perfect  tree,  a  miracle  hardly  to  be  found 
in  any  forest,  since  the  forest  would  be  no 
better  than  a  park  if  the  separate  members 
of  it  were  allowed  room  to  develop  each  af- 
ter its  own  law.  Nature  is  too  cunning  an 
artist  to  spoil  the  total  effect  of  her  picture 
by  too  fond  a  regard  for  the  beauty  of  par- 
ticular details. 

I  once  passed  a  lazy,  dreamy  afternoon  in 
a  small  clearing  on  a  Canadian  mountain- 
side, where  the  lumbermen  had  left  standing 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTII  PINE.    235 

a  few  scattered  butternuts.  I  can  see  them 
now,  —  misshapen  giants,  patriarchal  mon- 
strosities, their  huge  trunks  leaning  awk- 
wardly this  way  and  that,  and  each  bearing 
at  the  top  a  ludicrously  small,  one-sided 
bunch  of  leafy  boughs.  All  about  me  was 
the  ancient  wood.  For  a  week  I  had  been 
wandering  through  it  with  delight.  Such 
beeches  and  maples,  birches  and  butternuts ! 
I  had  not  thought  of  any  imperfection.  I 
had  been  in  sympathy  with  the  artist,  and 
had  enjoyed  his  work  in  the  same  spirit  in 
which  it  had  been  wrought.  Now,  however, 
with  these  unhappy  butternuts  in  my  eye,  I 
began  to  look,  not  at  the  forest,  but  at  the 
trees,  and  I  found  that  the  spared  butter- 
nuts were  in  no  sense  exceptional.  All  the 
trees  were  deformed.  They  had  grown  as 
they  could,  not  as  their  innate  proclivities 
would  have  led  them.  A  tree  is  no  better 
than  a  man ;  it  cannot  be  itself  if  it  stands 
too  much  in  a  crowd. 

I  set  it  down,  unwillingly,  to  the  discredit 
of  the  Weymouth  pine,  —  a  symptom  of  some 
ancestral  taint,  perhaps,  —  that  it  suffers 
less  than  most  trees  from  being  thus  en- 
croached upon.  Yet  it  does  not  entirely  es- 


236    IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTH  PINE. 

cape.  True,  it  leans  neither  to  left  nor 
right,  its  trunk  is  seldom  contorted;  if  it 
grow  at  all  it  must  grow  straight  toward  the 
zenith ;  but  it  is  sadly  maimed,  nevertheless, 
—  hardly  more  than  a  tall  stick  with  a  broom 
at  the  top.  If  you  would  see  a  typical  white 
pine  you  must  go  elsewhere  to  look  for  it. 
I  remember  one  such,  standing  by  itself  in 
a  broad  Concord  Eiver  meadow;  not  re- 
markable for  its  size,  but  of  a  symmetry  and 
beauty  that  make  the  traveler  turn  again 
and  again,  till  he  is  a  mile  away,  to  gaze 
upon  it.  No  pine-tree  ever  grew  like  that 
in  a  wood. 

I  go  sometimes  through  a  certain  hamlet, 
which  has  sprung  suddenly  into  being  on  a 
hill-top  where  formerly  stood  a  pine  grove. 
The  builders  of  the  houses  have  preserved 
(doubtless  they  use  that  word)  a  goodly  num- 
ber of  the  trees.  But  though  I  have  been 
wont  to  esteem  the  poorest  tree  as  better 
than  none,  I  am  almost  ready  to  forswear 
my  opinion  at  sight  of  these  slender  trunks, 
so  ungainly  and  unsupported.  The  first 
breeze,  one  would  say,  must  bring  them 
down  upon  the  roofs  they  were  never  meant 
to  shade.  Poor  naked  things !  I  fancy  they 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WE Y MOUTH  PINE.    237 

look  abashed  at  being  dragged  thus  un- 
expectedly and  inappropriately  into  broad 
daylight.  If  I  were  to  see  the  householder 
lifting  his  axe  against  one  of  them  I  think 
I  should  not  say,  "Woodman,  spare  that 
tree!  "  Let  it  go  to  the  fire,  the  sooner  the 
better,  and  be  out  of  its  misery. 

Not  that  I  blame  the  tree,  or  the  power 
that  made  it  what  it  is.  The  forest,  like 
every  other  community,  prospers  —  we  may 
rather  say  exists  —  at  the  expense  of  indi- 
vidual perfection.  But  the  expense  is  true 
economy,  for,  however  it  may  be  in  ethics, 
in  a3sthetics  the  end  justifies  the  means. 
The  solitary  pine,  unhindered,  symmetrical, 
green  to  its  lowermost  twig,  as  it  rises  out 
of  the  meadow  or  stands  a-tiptoe  on  the 
rocky  ledge,  is  a  thing  of  beauty,  a  pleasure 
to  every  eye.  A  pity  and  a  shame  that  it 
should  not  be  more  common !  But  the  pine 
forest,  dark,  spacious,  slumberous,  musical! 
Here  is  something  better  than  beauty,  dearer 
than  pleasure.  When  we  enter  this  cathe- 
dral, unless  we  enter  it  unworthily,  we  speak 
not  of  such  things.  Every  tree  may  be  im- 
perfect, with  half  its  branches  dead  for  want 
of  room  or  want  of  sun,  but  until  the  dev- 


238    IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTU  PINE. 

otee  turns  critic  —  an  easy  step,  alas,  for 
half -hearted  worshipers  —  we  are  conscious 
of  no  lack.  Magnificence  can  do  without 
prettiness,  and  a  touch  of  solemnity  is  bet- 
ter than  any  amusement. 

Where  shall  we  hear  better  preaching, 
more  searching  comment  upon  life  and  death, 
than  in  this  same  cathedral?  Verily,  the 
pine  is  a  priest  of  the  true  religion.  It 
speaks  never  of  itself,  never  its  own  words. 
Silent  it  stands  till  the  Spirit  breathes  upon 
it.  Then  all  its  innumerable  leaves  awake 
and  speak  as  they  are  moved.  Then  "he 
that  hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him  hear."  Won- 
derful is  human  speech,  —  the  work  of  gen- 
erations upon  generations,  each  striving  to 
express  itself,  its  feelings,  its  thoughts,  its 
needs,  its  sufferings,  its  joys,  its  inexpressi- 
ble desires.  Wonderful  is  human  speech, 
for  its  complexity,  its  delicacy,  its  power. 
But  the  pine-tree,  under  the  visitations  of 
the  heavenly  influence,  utters  things  incom- 
municable; it  whispers  to  us  of  things  we 
have  never  said  and  never  can  say,  —  things 
that  lie  deeper  than  words,  deeper  than 
thought.  Blessed  are  our  ears  if  we  hear, 
for  the  message  is  not  to  be  understood  by 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTH  PINE.     239 

every  comer,  nor,  indeed,  by  any,  except 
at  happy  moments.  In  this  temple  all  hear- 
ing is  given  by  inspiration,  for  which  reason 
the  pine-tree's  language  is  inarticulate,  as 
Jesus  spake  in  parables. 

The  pine  wood  loves  a  clean  floor,  and 
is  intolerant  of  undergrowth.  Grasses  and 
sedges,  with  all  bushes,  it  frowns  upon,  as  a 
model  housekeeper  frowns  upon  dirt.  A 
plain  brown  carpet  suits  it  best,  with  a  mod- 
est figure  of  green  —  preferably  of  evergreen 
—  woven  into  it;  a  tracery  of  partridge- 
berry  vine,  or,  it  may  be,  of  club  moss,  with 
here  and  there  a  tuft  of  pipsissewa  and  py- 
rola.  Its  mood  is  sombre,  its  taste  severe. 
Yet  I  please  myself  with  noticing  that  the 
pine  wood,  like  the  rest  of  us,  is  not  without 
its  freak,  its  amiable  inconsistency,  its  one 
"tender  spot,"  as  we  say  of  each  other.  It 
makes  a  pet  of  one  of  our  oddest,  brightest, 
and  showiest  flowers,  the  pink  lady's-slip- 
per,  and  by  some  means  or  other  has  enticed 
it  away  from  the  peat  bog,  where  it  surely 
should  be  growing,  along  with  the  calopogon, 
the  pogonia,  and  the  arethusa,  and  here  it  is, 
like  some  rare  Exotic,  thriving  in  a  bed  of 
sand  and  on  a  mat  of  brown  needles.  Who 


240    IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WE  Y MOUTH  PINE. 

will  undertake  to  explain  the  occult  "elec- 
tive affinity "  by  which  this  rosy  orchid  is 
made  so  much  at  home  under  the  heavy 
shadow  of  the  Weymouth  pine  ? 

According  to  the  common  saying,  there  is 
no  accounting  for  tastes.  If  by  this  is  meant 
simply  that  we  cannot  account  for  them,  the 
statement  is  true  enough.  But  if  we  are  to 
speak  exactly,  there  are  no  likes  nor  dislikes 
except  for  cause.  Every  freak  of  taste,  like 
every  vagary  of  opinion,  has  its  origin  and 
history,  and,  with  sufficient  knowledge  on 
our  part,  could  be  explained  and  justified. 
The  pine-tree  and  the  orchid  are  not  friends 
by  accident,  however  the  case  may  look  to 
us  who  cannot  see  behind  the  present  nor 
beneath  the  surface.  There  are  no  myster- 
ies per  se,  but  only  to  the  ignorant.  Yet 
ignorance  itself,  disparagingly  as  we  talk  of 
it,  has  its  favorable  side,  —  as  it  is  pleasant 
sometimes  to  withdraw  from  the  sun  and 
wander  for  a  season  in  the  half-light  of  the 
forest.  Perhaps  we  need  be  in  no  haste  to 
reach  a  world  where  there  is  never  any  dark- 
ness. In  some  moods,  at  least,  I  go  with 
the  partridge-berry  vine  and  the  lady's-slip- 
per.  It  is  good,  I  think,  to  live  awhile 
longer  in  the  shadow ;  to  see  as  through  a 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTII  PINE.    241 

glass  darkly;  and  to  hear  overhead,  not 
plain  words,  but  inarticulate  murmurs. 

I  am  not  to  be  understood  as  praising 
the  pine  at  the  expense  of  other  trees.  All 
things  considered,  no  evergreen  can  be  equal 
to  a  summer  -  green,  on  which  we  see  the 
leaves  budding,  unfolding,  ripening,  and 
falling, — a  "worlde  whiche  neweth  everie 
daie."  What  would  winter  be  worth  with- 
out the  naked  branches  of  maples  and  elms, 
beeches  and  oaks  ?  We  speak  of  them  sadly : 

"  Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang." 

But  the  sadness  is  of  a  pleasing  sort,  that 
could  ill  be  spared  by  any  who  know  the 
pleasures  of  sentiment  and  sober  reflection. 
But  though  one  tree  differeth  from  another 
tree  in  glory,  we  may  surely  rejoice  in  them 
all.  One  ministers  to  our  mood  to-day,  an- 
other to-morrow. 

"  I  hate  those  trees  that  never  lose  their  foliage ; 
They  seem  to  have  no  sympathy  with  Nature  ; 
Winter  and  summer  are  alike  to  them." 

So  says  Ternissa,  in  Landor's  dialogue.  I 
know  what  she  means.  But  I  do  not  "hate  " 
an  impassive,  unchangeable  temper,  whether 
in  a  tree  or  in  a  man.  I  have  so  little  of 
such  a  spirit  myself  that  I  am  glad  to  see 


242    IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  WEYMOUTH  PINE. 

some  tokens  of  it  —  not  too  frequent,  indeed, 
nor  too  self-assertive  —  in  the  world  about 
me.  And  so  I  say,  let  me  never  be,  for  any 
long  time  together,  where  there  are  no  Wey- 
mouth  pines  at  which  I  may  gaze  from  afar, 
or  under  which  I  may  lie  and  listen.  They 
boast  not  (rare  stoics!),  but  they  set  us  a 
brave  example.  No  "blasts  that  blow  the 
poplar  white "  can  cause  the  pine-tree  to 
blanch.  No  frost  has  power  to  strip  it  of  a 
single  leaf.  Its  wood  is  soft,  but  how  daunt- 
less its  spirit !  —  a  truly  encouraging  para- 
dox, lending  itself,  at  our  private  need,  to 
endless  consolatory  moralizings.  The  great 
majority  of  my  brothers  must  be  comforted, 
I  think,  by  any  fresh  reminder  that  the  bat- 
tle is  not  to  the  strong. 

For  myself,  then,  like  the  lowly  partridge- 
berry  vine,  I  would  be  always  the  pine-tree's 
neighbor.  Who  knows  but  by  lifelong  fel- 
lowship with  it  I  may  absorb  something  of 
its  virtue  ?  Summer  and  winter,  its  fragrant 
breath  rises  to  heaven;  and  of  it  we  may 
say,  with  more  truth  than  Landor  said  of  the 
over-sweet  fragrance  of  the  linden,  "Happy 
the  man  whose  aspirations  are  pure  enough 
to  mingle  with  it!  " 


INDEX. 


ASTERS,  62,  214,  217. 
Autumnal  flowers,  212. 
Autumnal  ornithology,  191. 

Bearberry,  72,  78. 
Bittern,  71. 

Blackberry,  63,  210,  224. 
Bluebird,  179,  184,  185. 
Butterflies :  — 

in  November,  36. 

on  Mt.  Mansfield,  104. 

Catbird,  167, 
Cedar-bird,  33. 
Chestnut-tree,  228. 
Chewink,  191. 
Chickadee,  49,  55. 
Cowbird,  83. 
Creeper : — 

black-and-white,  85. 

brown,  49. 

Crossbill,  white-winged,  27. 
Cuckoo,  192. 

Dandelion,  219. 
December  birds,  54. 
December  flowers,  60. 
Diapensia,  23,  25,  30. 
Dodder,  223. 

Evening  primrose,  228. 

Flicker,  53,  69. 
Flowers :  — 

iii  November,  36. 


Flowers :  — 

in  December,  60. 

on  Cape  Cod,  80. 

on  Mt.  Lafayette,  22, 
25. 

on  Mt.  Mansfield,  103. 
Flycatcher :  — 

great-crested,  9. 

least,  9. 

olive-sided,  9, 10. 

phcebe,  9,  10, 179. 

TraiU's,  9. 

yellow-bellied,  9. 

Golden  Aster,  80. 

Golden-rods,  81,  214,  215. 

Goldfinch,  177. 

Grass  Finch  (Vesper  Spar- 
row), 5, 110. 

Greenland  Sandwort,  23,  25, 
31,  103. 

Groundsel,  61. 

Habenaria  dilatata,  103. 
Heron,  great  blue,  197. 
Holy-Grass,25. 
Humming-Bird :  — 

Kivoli,  139. 

ruby  -  throated,     111. 

135. 
Hyla  Pickeringii,  36,  38. 

Jay:  — 

Canada,  100. 
blue,  100. 


244                                 INDEX. 

Kingbird,  9,  148,  179. 

Sparrow  :  — 

vesper,  5,  110. 

Lady's-slipper,  79,  227,  239. 
Lapland  Azalea,  31. 

white  -  throated,     16, 
52,  91,  92,  102,  110, 

Lark  :  — 

190. 

meadow,  53,  167. 

Strawberry,  32,  223. 

shore  (or  horned),  53. 

Swallow,     white  -  breasted, 

Linnaea,  216-218. 

(Tree  Swallow),  180, 

183. 

Maryland     Yellow  -  throat, 

Swift,  Chimney,  110,  182. 

149,  192. 

Mount  Cannon,  33. 

Thistles,  207. 

Mount  Lafayette,  15,  25. 

Thrush  :  — 

Mount  Mansfield,  90. 

gray-cheeked,  16,  19, 

94,  95,  97,  191. 

November  in  Eastern  Mas- 

hermit, 19,  97. 

sachusetts,  36. 

olive  -  backed,     (or 

Nuthatch,  Red  -bellied,  49, 

Swainson's),  19,  51, 

55,  190. 

97,  99,  191. 

water,  84. 

Oriole,  Baltimore,  123,  167, 

Wilson's    (or   veery), 

179. 

17,  19,  98. 
wood,  98. 

Peck's  Geum,  23,  25,  31. 

Turnstone,  86. 

Phoebe,  9,  10,  179. 

Pine  Grosbeak,  26. 

Veery     (Wilson's    Thrush), 

Pine,  white,  232. 

17,  19,  98. 

Plover  :  — 

Violets,  212,  219,  221. 

golden,  202. 

Vireo:- 

kiUdeer,  39,  41. 
Poverty-Grass,  72,  81. 

Philadelphia,  11. 
red-eyed,  11,  83,  153, 

Purple  Gerardia,  81,  213. 

191. 

solitary  (or  blue-head- 

Redstart, 16,  190,  191. 

ed),  11,  13,  191. 

Robin,  55,  153,  184. 

warbling,  14. 

Roses,  32,  81,  209. 

Warbler:  — 

Scarlet  Tanager,  167,  191. 
Screech  Owl,  177. 

bay-breasted,  6,  190. 
Blackburnian,  6,    16, 

Smilax  :  — 

190,  191. 

glauea,  80. 
•      rotundifolia,  80,  223. 
Snow  Bunting,  53. 

black  -  and  -  yellow, 
(magnolia),  190. 
black-poll,   6,  16,  96, 

Sparrow  :  — 
chipping,  179. 
field,  167. 
Ipswich,  53,  54. 

99,  102,  190. 
black-throated    blue, 
16,  191. 
black-throated  green, 

song,  53,  85,  167. 

16,  85,  190. 

INDEX. 


245 


Warbler :  — 

blue    golden -winged, 

178. 
blue   yellow  -  backed, 

83,  190. 
Canadian    flycatcher, 

16,  190, 

Connecticut,  190. 
eolden   (summer  yel- 

low-bird),  192. 
Nashville,  8, 16. 
pine,  191. 
prairie,  84,  178. 
Tennessee,  5,  6. 


Warbler :  — 

Wilson's    black  -  cap, 

186. 

yellow-rumped   (myr- 
tle), 95. 

White-winged  Crossbill,  27. 
Winter  Wren,  102. 
Witch-Hazel,  61,  228. 
Woodpecker :  — 
downy,  50. 

golden-winged   (flick- 
er), 53,  69. 
yellow-bellied,  190. 
Wood  Pewee,  9, 167. 


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